


Batting from the Pavilion End

by Orchidae



Series: The Barrow-Brothersverse [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 01, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, LGBTQ Themes, Light BDSM, Love Triangles, M/M, Medical student Thomas, Professional cricketer Thomas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orchidae/pseuds/Orchidae
Summary: It’s 1912, and after a successful run playing professional cricket for Lancashire, Thomas Barrow has been selected to play for England in the Test Series. However, his newfound celebrity has attracted the attention of a certain Duke. Meanwhile, his old school friend Matthew Crawley receives some life-changing news.
Relationships: Mary Crawley/Matthew Crawley, Thomas Barrow/Duke of Crowborough, Thomas Barrow/Original Male Character(s), Thomas Barrow/Peter Pelham, Tom Branson/Sybil Crawley
Series: The Barrow-Brothersverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629520
Comments: 132
Kudos: 219





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are for part two of this series. I will be writing this with the intent that it won't be all that necessary to have read the first story in the series, but if you still want to then that would be great. =)

London

April 1912

Phillip Villiers, Duke of Crowborough, Marquess of Mayfield, and Earl of Rotherfield, was not much of a sports fan. Unless, of course, the sport involved a horse or a gun. He had little interest in cricket, county cricket even less so. Therefore, his attendance at the Lancashire vs. Middlesex match at Lord’s was not especially enthusiastic. However, Pelham had insisted, and the man left his studio so rarely these days that he felt he couldn’t refuse. He wasn’t sure why Peter would want to see the match either, the closest thing to a sport his friend engaged in was taking walks through the countryside and sketching trees.

Peter Pelham or Lord Bellingham as he was titled, was the heir apparent to the marquessate of Hexham. Although they had gone to school together, Peter was a few years older and the pair hadn’t become friends until Phillip had matriculated at Oxford. Phillip had been at Merton College, reading English Literature while Peter had dropped out to study fine arts at the Ruskin School of Drawing. From the very beginning, Phillip had known they were the same. A certain amount of sexual experimentation had been common at Eton, as its students were cooped up together during the horrors of puberty. The staff had mostly turned a blind eye to it. It had been different for Phillip, more than youthful urges and certainly something he had never grown out of. Peter was much the same, sometimes quite brazenly so since he was far more publicly committed to the bohemian lifestyle than Phillip had ever dared to be. Although they had slept together a few times in the beginning, drunk on brandy and the excitement of finding a kindred spirit, they had only ever been close friends. Philip had a type and the thin, fair, and gentle Peter was not it.

Due to poor weather that week, the match had been delayed until three o’clock, so they decided to get a pint and a pie at Lord’s Tavern while they waited. Philip was glad of it. Neither of them could justify spending money on a proper lunch. The Athenaeum, Peter’s club, didn’t allow guests in the dining room, and if they had gone to Whites then Philip would likely face the embarrassment of being asked when they would be expecting his outstanding membership fees. They’d never dare go so far as throwing him out, just politely keep charging his account and let his debt grow and grow, and he didn’t dare cancel his membership because people would talk. The thought made him feel sick.

Phillip was hardly the only member of the nobility to have fallen on hard times, but a father with a rampant gambling problem and a mother whose extravagance could put Marie Antoinette to shame had left him so in debt that the revenue from his estates barely covered the interest. Selling off parts of his land was out of the question, and would only be a temporary solution, like baling water out of a sinking boat without fixing the leak. His mother had given him until the end of the London season to find a wife with a fortune large enough to get them in the black. If he was unsuccessful then he would have to cast a wider net and continue his search in New York where, hopefully, no one knew about his financial problems or his fondness for cock. He was just glad she hadn’t sent him over that spring on the Titanic, although freezing to death in the Atlantic sounded slightly better than getting married in his opinion.

“Are you quite well, Phillip?” Pelham asked once they had finished their lunch and returned to their place in the stands. “You’ve been very quiet today.”

“Oh, you know, the usual.” He didn’t want to bore his friend again with his worries. Phillip was worried that he was beginning to sound like a broken record. “What’s brought all this on? I never knew you were a cricket man,” he said, changing the subject, gesturing towards the pitch. The two team captains had stepped out onto the pitch and were about to toss a coin to decide who would bat first.

“I’m not. I’m here for a job.” Pelham replied, opening his satchel which contained his sketchbooks and graphite.

Peter was also hard on his luck. After the whole dropping out of university incident, his father had cut him off to teach him a lesson. What infuriated Philip was that the problem would have been easily solved with an apology and the promise of resuming his studies. Lord Hexham was a bit of an ogre, but he wasn’t an unreasonable man. His son, on the other hand, had stubbornly chosen the life of a starving artist and had been making his own way for nearly two years. Philip suspected that he had a wealthy lover somewhere who was keeping him in paint and bespoke suits. He had exhibited at the Royal Academy with limited success. Peter wasn’t the most innovative artist but his talent for capturing likenesses and personality had got him some commercial work, doing illustrations for Vanity Fair, Punch, and the occasional advertising company under the pseudonym of The Scribbler. He also painted portraits, mostly for friends of the family. Horses, dogs, and children, in that order of priority.

“Oh yes?” Phillip said, curiously. This wasn't Peter's usual bailiwick.

“See the opener for Lancashire? That's Thomas Barrow. He’s getting moved up this season. Vanity Fair want to do a feature on him, so I thought I’d get some sketches of him in action before the sitting.” Peter said admiringly as he began to make a quick study of the batsman’s stance and posture.

Phillip looked over at the man his friend had pointed out and was momentarily struck dumb. With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the batsman cut an impressive figure in his cricket whites. One would have expected, with his pale complexion, that the cream coloured jersey and trousers might have washed him out, but instead, he appeared luminous like a marble statue. Phillip knew then, that he had to have him.

“Certainly more appealing than household pets.” Phillip teased as he reached for Pelham’s binoculars. “When’s the sitting?”

“I thought you’d be interested.” Peter laughed. “He’s coming on Monday. You can ‘drop in’ at five o’clock and I’ll introduce you. Not a minute sooner, I’m on a short deadline and need all the time I can get.” Phillip rolled his eyes. All the time to ogle, no doubt, perhaps coax the poor man into posing nude. He’d seen Peter’s portfolio. He knew the sort of ‘art’ his friend produced in his spare time.

“Do you think he’ll bat for our team?” Phillip mused.

“That’s never concerned you before,” his friend chuckled.


	2. A New Batting Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas gets his portrait painted.

__

_Since his first-class debut four years ago, Thomas “Basher” Barrow has well and truly established himself as the ‘enfant terrible’ of English cricket. Barrow’s_ _success is primarily based on fast footwork and an ability to play many different shots mixing reliable defensive shots with much more aggressive attack strokes. As Wisden noted ‘he does not hit the ball so much as bludgeon it.’ What makes Barrow especially unique is his ambidexterity, making him equally comfortable playing right or left-handed or indeed the ability to feign one and quickly switch to the other in a new unorthodox stroke dubbed the ‘switch shot’. Traditionalists have grumbled about this move, declaring it to be unnecessarily risky, unfair, or just plain showing off. However, the shot consistently delights the crowds along with Barrow’s good looks. I must confess that I have never seen so many young ladies in the stands when Barrow is batting. Well, this reporter is happy to confirm that he’s a bachelor._

_The young Mr Barrow was marked out as a potential star while attending Manchester Grammar School. High Master Patton recalls watching him play as a child at a school open day. “He batted extremely well. He certainly gave the older boys a run for their money. I can’t say it was the only reason he was accepted, he was a very bright young man, but it certainly helped his application.”_

_“Another lad had taken Barrow’s watch and was about to throw it in a pond,” says Steven Haddington, Barrow’s games teacher and former striker for Manchester United. “But he caught it, inches above the water. I knew then that he had something special.”_

_From there Barrow played for his school team, becoming captain in his final year while gaining recognition locally with Oldham Cricket Club. This was followed by a brief stint in the minor counties where his success caught the attention of A.H. Hornby as he was attempting to breathe new life into the Lancashire team at the beginning of his tenure as team captain. “It was a big decision because I was still at university at the time and wasn’t sure how much I would be able to commit to the team,” says Barrow when I met him at the member’s bar at Lord’s, “But this isn’t the sort of opportunity that comes along twice.” For all of his flair on the pitch, Barrow is a quiet man with a modest demeanour. There can't be many men who could play cricket at a professional level and pursue a medical degree at the same time and yet the young batsman brushes it off with a self-deprecating joke. "I was so tired by the end, I think I might have sleepwalked through the last Rose match."_

_Following Jack Hobbs and Reggie Spooner’s example, he has adapted his technique to contend with unorthodox bowling including googly bowlers. He is particularly successful on difficult pitches for batting. Since the googly has become a mainstay of the Australian team, the addition of Barrow and Hobbs will serve England well, and as it’s due to be an especially rotten summer, one can expect sticky wickets aplenty._

_“I think that was definitely a part of Hyde’s strategy,” Barrow adds, “He was deliberately choosing players who could stand up to the Australian and South African bowlers and who can cope with difficult conditions.”_

_When asked about G.B. Hyde’s selection as England’s captain, Barrow is starry eyes and enthusiastic. “Well, I grew up watching him play so it’s really an honour,” he says, “He’s a legend. What can I say? I’ll always be a Lancashire man, but whenever Hyde and Ranji were up to bat… it really was the greatest thing to witness.”_

_*_

“Did he ask you about the Triangular Tournament?” Mr Hyde said. The Triangular Tournament was a controversial new experiment in Test cricket where the South African and Australian teams would tour Great Britain at the same time and if successful would be hosted by a different country every four years like the Olympic Games. Thomas doubted anyone would be willing to travel that far for a few cricket matches, nor did he think that the British public would take much interest in a match between Australia and South Africa, of which there would be two, but he wasn’t the one organising things.

As soon as Thomas’s Vanity Fair interview had finished, G.B. Hyde had pounced on him and bought him a dinner of lamb cutlets with roast potatoes and buttered cabbage at a chop house on the edge of Regent’s Park. Thomas was nervous and more than a little star-struck. He hadn’t known the other man had attended the match that day. Mr Hyde had been present when they had been discussing his contract earlier that year, but they hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk beyond introductions. Thomas had been offered two hundred pounds for the season which included the upcoming tournament and a tour of Australia via India in January. It was an obscene amount, more money than he had ever seen in his life, more than he had made in the last five years combined. 

“No, it didn’t come up in the end,” Thomas said pushing his food around his plate, not having much of an appetite, to begin with. He felt terribly nervous being around the other man. Although he had played with or against a fair few of his childhood heroes, Gerald Bennet Hyde was something else, an actual living legend who had excelled in cricket, football, rugby union and athletics. Thomas wouldn’t have been surprised if he turned out to be a notorious jewel thief or a spy for the secret service bureau. He also had the added problem of being incredibly handsome, perhaps even better looking at thirty-nine than Thomas remembered him when he was younger. Hyde was tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, equally at ease in athletic gear and suits from Savile Row, with chestnut brown hair streaked with grey and a thick chevron moustache.

“Thank Christ for that. If anyone asks you about it in the future, just stay neutral. Keep it light and breezy. Everyone knows it’s going to be a disaster but it’s best if no one addresses it directly.” Hyde advised as he set down his knife and fork. He wiped his mouth and offered Thomas a cigarette across the table, Thomas looked at them longingly, all lined up in their silver case, but decided against it and shook his head.

“I think he was mostly interested in my love life,” Thomas complained.

“Well, you’ve amassed a lot of fans who want to know that sort of thing.” Hyde winked. “You’re meeting the artist tomorrow, correct?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a peculiar fellow but he’s harmless enough,” the captain warned “If he asks if he can paint you in the nude, just politely refuse. Unless you really need the money, at which point you should accept no less than two pounds ten shillings.”

“What?” Thomas almost spat out his claret across the pristine white tablecloth.

“Oh, there’s no shame in it. That sort of thing paid my way through university. I’ll tell you, having a room full of students draw your todger is quite the boost to one’s ego.”

Thomas struggled to find something to say while trying not to think about his companion’s modelling antics. What did one say to something like that? Was Hyde flirting with him or did he just mean it as some sort of humorous anecdote? In any other situation, Thomas would have jumped at the chance to sleep with the self-proclaimed King of Sports, but Hyde was technically his boss and the concept didn’t sit right with him. 

“Well, if the season goes badly, I’ll know who to talk to,” Thomas said, deciding it would be best to deflect things with a joke. To his relief, Hyde laughed heartily and took another sip of his wine.

“Very good. How are you finding the lodgings? Is Mrs Gibson treating you all right?”

“Yes, she’s quite the hostess,” Thomas replied. One of the conditions of his contract was that he would have to train in London for the season which had taken him away from home for the first time. The cricket board had helped to arrange for his accommodation at a men’s boarding house across the park in Camden where he had to share a bathroom with Harry Dean and Walter Brearley, two of his teammates from Lancashire. Mrs Gibson, the landlady had given him an exhaustive list of rules which varied from the reasonable ‘no noise after ten o’clock’, to the ridiculous, ‘no feeding pigeons on the windowsills’. There had to be a story behind that one.

“Is this your first time living away from home?”

“Uh, yes.”

“I suppose London’s quite different from what you’re used to.” Thomas nodded, “You’ll get used to it. At least you’re among familiar faces, eh?”

“I suppose so,” Thomas said, although he wasn’t especially friendly with either Harry or Walt who were both bowlers and had always been a clique of two.

“Now, on to the real reason I invited you here. I’ve been considering what to do about the batting orders this season. Hobbs and Rhodes will most likely be opening for us, they’ve always worked well together, and then I thought we could have you in third and me in fourth.”

“You want us to be partners?”

“Absolutely. You might be a bit green, but I’ve never seen anyone do the things you can do. If anything, I’ll have to work to keep up.”

Hyde paid the bill despite Thomas’s protests and the pair parted ways and Thomas made his way home through the park, his mind reeling. G.B. Hyde, the greatest sportsman in the country, possibly the world, wanted to be his batting partner. He pinched himself, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The spring sunshine was beginning to give way to dusk and bathed the blossoming horse chestnut and lime trees that lined Broad Walk in a soft orange glow. It was certainly a beautiful walk to and from the training grounds.

Thomas had been in London for less than a week and hadn’t quite got over the crushing feeling of homesickness that living in a new place brought with it. But he was twenty-two, more than old enough to go out on his own. He had been travelling the country for matches for nearly six years, staying in shabby hotels and bed and breakfasts. Mrs Gibson’s guesthouse was a palace in comparison with indoor plumbing, its own laundry service, and breakfasts every morning at seven. Thomas’s room was clean and impersonal with a single brass bed, a writing desk, a pine wardrobe in the corner, and a small fireplace with a threadbare armchair in front of it. A veritable monk’s cell, which more or less described Thomas’s life for the last few years.

His time at the Victoria University of Manchester School of Medicine had passed in a blur of constant work. It had been relatively calm for the first year when he was only in the minor counties and his studies had been restricted primarily to the lecture hall and laboratories. Once he had been moved up to the first Lancashire team, things had become significantly busier. Then in his third year, he had been sent on a work placement as a student doctor at the Royal Infirmary and managing both of his responsibilities had become nearly impossible. If he wasn’t studying, he was training, if he wasn’t training, he was on the road, and if he wasn’t on the road, he was passed out from exhaustion. The trouble was that both his scholarship and his place on the team were extremely competitive and any slip in his performance in either role could easily lead to his funding being cancelled or being cut from the team. It was a precarious balancing act that wasn’t exactly conducive to an active social life. Thomas had brought medical textbooks to read on train journeys or after matches when the rest of the team were celebrating. He had trained long into the evening after even longer days on the hospital wards. During that time, getting six hours of sleep was a luxury, and days off were rare.

Finally, after he had collapsed from exhaustion, rather dramatically, after finishing his final exam, his uncle Jonathan had put his foot down. He could be a doctor or a cricketer, but he would run himself into the ground if he tried to be both. Thomas had voiced his concerns to the board of the Lancashire cricket club, fully intending to leave the team. Instead, he had been offered him a full-time contract at two pounds a week. He could have certainly earned more if he took a job at the hospital after he graduated, and more still once he got his MD, but medicine didn’t make his heart race the same way that cricket did. It was Matthew’s father, Dr Reginald Crawley who had given him the best advice. “Cricket is a young man’s game,” he had said, “You have your whole life to practice medicine, but only a short time to do something like this.” He had already been ill by that point, although none of them had realised it yet, and his words seemed all the more significant when he had passed away the next year from pancreatic cancer, although not before co-authoring an article for the Lancet with the surgeon who performed his pancreaticoduodenectomy.

Things had become easier since he had taken a break from medical school and began to play professionally. He had been a strange case on the team since most amateurs were gentlemen who could afford not to work, and most professional players were working class. Thomas, who had come from a humble background and through various opportunities had managed to claw his way into the middle classes, didn’t fit into either category. Thomas suspected that making him a contracted player made the posh gits on the team more comfortable.

He had more time on his hands now, although he still needed to travel a lot. The problem was that with more time came more loneliness. He was happy to spend more time with Jonathan and his brother, David, to visit with Matthew and his parents and escort his friend, Elaine, to various parties and social gatherings. He had even visited his sister and her husband when they'd had their daughter, although married life and motherhood had done little to soften her. He couldn’t help feeling envious as he saw the people around him fall in love and settle down. Thomas hadn’t had much luck in that department since his disastrous…. whatever he’d had with Whittaker. The pair of them had mostly lost touch after school, his friend wasn’t the most confident writer and only sent letters when it was absolutely necessary, so their interactions had been reduced to chance encounters at the student’s union building or the library. Occasionally those encounters would lead to something else. Then his friend had come into his inheritance and started associating with a ‘better’ class of people, and that had been that.

Thomas had thought about seeking out company while he was in London but hadn’t yet worked up the nerve. He had become paranoid about pursuing such things in Manchester since his career had taken off and he had become something of a local celebrity, at least among cricket fans. It would only take one person recognising him to have him coerced into some sort of blackmailing scam, or worse, imprisoned. It was maddening. He was at his physical peak. He would probably never look this good again. He should be sowing his wild oats all over town, and yet here he was home by nine. But perhaps if the artist was a man of his sort as Mr Hyde had insinuated, and halfway tolerable, then things might change.

*

The next morning, Thomas rose at six for his morning jog around the park, did his hatha yoga exercises, washed, brushed his teeth, shaved, oiled his hair, dressed in his day suit, had tea with toast and marmalade in the guesthouse dining room before setting out for the artist’s studio. He took the Piccadilly railway from King’s Cross to Baron’s Court, feeling unnerved at the prospect of travelling underground. The artist’s studio was on a wide and handsome street of newly built houses opposite an equally handsome public garden. Each was clad in red brick and terracotta tiles and had huge rounded windows on the top floors, presumably to let the best light in. He was greeted at the door by a housekeeper who showed him up the stairs and into a bright and airy room, cluttered with paints and jars and brushes. Cavasses and leather portfolios were stacked against the far wall with portraits in varying states of completion. A young lady in ivory lace, a family with three small children, a man in ceremonial dress. They were really quite good. Thomas was hardly an expert on the subject, but his uncle and brother had dragged him to enough exhibitions in his time to know his Rembrandts from his Holman Hunts.

“Ah, Mr Barrow I take it?” Thomas turned around, startled, seeing a man in the doorway. He must have come upstairs without him noticing. He was tall and thin, a little older than himself but not by much, with sandy blonde hair and pale skin heavy with freckles. He was quite attractive, if a little gangly, with large ears and long, expressive hands Thomas had expected him to be some old bohemian type with a beard down to his waist and a gold earring, but this gentleman looked as though he had just stepped away from a garden party.

“Oh, yes. Good morning.” Thomas said.

“Peter Pelham, it's a pleasure to meet you,” the man said and shook Thomas’s hand.

“Likewise.”

“I trust you brought your whites. There’s a screen over there you can change behind.” Peter directed.

Thomas did as he was asked and allowed Peter to pose him into a relaxed stance with a cricket bat and he did his best to hold the position without moving.

“Is this your first time sitting for a portrait?” Peter asked.

“Well, I let my brother draw me when he was at art school,” Thomas replied. He had looked like a vampire from a Union Jack story when David was done with it.

“Oh, so you come from an artistic family?” Peter asked, as though he were looking for some sort of signal. Hyde was right, definitely peculiar.

“That’s one way of putting it. They’re jewellery and watchmakers.”

“Not Barrow Brothers, surely?”

“Yes, that’s them.”

“I have a watch from them. Always keeps perfect time.” Peter marvelled. “What made you pursue cricket if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My father got me into it.” Thomas said, “And I was better at it than making watches. Ironically, I was more a sportsman than an artist,” he added for good measure. Pelham smiled, clearly understanding the joke.

“So, you could say you were the black sheep of the family.”

“I think we’re all black sheep in my family,” Thomas said,

“I never fit in, myself. My father wanted me to go into politics.” Politics? Of course, he would be a gentleman. Who else would have the luxury of being able to paint all day?

“Do you paint many athletes?” Thomas asked.

“Not as many as I would like.” Peter chuckled. “I mostly do racehorses.”

“Are you a sports fan, then?”

“No,” the other man said with a grin. Thomas couldn’t help but laugh, feeling as though he had passed some sort of test.

The sitting was over sooner than Thomas expected. Peter was pleasant company and was clearly well versed in maintaining light conversation to make his subjects feel comfortable and his housekeeper kept them both well stocked with tea and sandwiches. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see it was almost five o’clock.

“Do you think you have everything you need?” Thomas asked.

“Yes, I think I’ll manage from here,” Peter said peering around his easel. “You did very well today.”

“Oh, thank you.” Thomas blushed.

“Would you like to see?” Thomas approached from his spot by the window and looked at the finished painting. It was a full-body portrait in gouache against a simple background. It wasn’t a caricature like most of the Vanity Fair illustrations he'd seen but still stylised, as though he were featured on a theatre poster.

“It’s very flattering,” Thomas said, feeling a little embarrassed. The man in the painting seemed calm, collected, and confident, the opposite of how he felt. Thomas stepped behind the painted Chinese screen again and changed back into his day clothes.

“It’s a shame they insisted on including the cap. Your hairstyle is very _en vogue_ ,” Pelham commented when he emerged and, rather shockingly, brushed a stray strand of hair away from Thomas’s face. He felt his breath catch in his throat. “I know this might sound a little strange, but I have a friend who works for Reynell & Son. They’re working on a campaign for Battersby’s Brilliantine at the moment and, well, I think you might be just the ticket. Would you mind if I put your name forward?”

“Reynell & Son?”

“It’s an advertising firm. They might be willing to pay you a decent amount for your endorsement. They could do a little pun for it. Battersby, batting, it practically writes itself.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Same as today, I expect. Maybe a public appearance or two.”

The idea of being used in an advertising campaign felt acutely embarrassing. His teammates already teased him enough about caring too much about his hair, and they would surely have a field day knowing he was the face of a brilliantine brand. But on the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to hear their offer if they were interested. The more money he made that season, the more he would be able to save for a rainy day, and there was a dark, vain little part of him that would be pleased by the attention.

“All right. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to ask.”

“Fabulous.” Pelham laughed. “Where should I contact you.”

“Oh, I’m staying at 37 Oakley Square, but I’ll be travelling most weekends.”

“Of course. You’re still in the county championship. They must be keeping you very busy.” Peter said as he jotted down the address on a scrap of paper.

“Well, players don’t get to pick and choose their matches as Gentlemen do.” 

They were interrupted by the shrill sound of the doorbell ringing. Peter sighed dramatically, seemingly annoyed by the interruption. Footsteps could be heard on the staircase and a pleasant voice saying: “Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Mrs Clare, I’ll see myself up.” The door swung open and a young man of about Thomas’s age sauntered in. He was well-groomed and arrogantly good looking, wearing a dark pinstriped suit that was probably worth Thomas’s annual salary.

“Pell! There you are.”

“Good afternoon, Phillip. What brings you so far out of town?”

“I was just in Richmond for the Polo and thought I’d drop in and see an old friend,” the man said smoothly. “But I see you’re busy.”

“Not at all, we were just finishing.” Peter said lightly, “Allow me to introduce Mr Thomas Barrow, specialist batsman and a most excellent life model for the day. Mr Barrow, this is Phillip Villiers-“

“Just Phillip, please. Let’s not stand on ceremony here.” Phillip cut him off and shook Thomas’s hand.

“Then I suppose you must call me Thomas,” Thomas said, noticing how disarming Phillip’s smile was. It was open and effortless and lit up his whole face.

“Thomas,” Phillip repeated, as though his name were something precious. “How wonderful to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: The character of G.B. Hyde is fictional but heavily inspired by the real-life sportsman and England captain Charles Burgess Fry. Other cricketers mentioned in this chapter were real people on the England team at the time.
> 
> I based Thomas's wages on records of football clubs at the time paying their professional players between two and four pounds a week and assuming that professional cricket would be a comparable wage. This would have been a very good deal as working-class men at the time earned on average £70 a year and women £40.
> 
> Thomas's switch shot is based on the switch hit credited to Kevin Peter Pietersen in 2006. It's more of a Twenty20 style of batting because it's super risky, but I wanted Thomas to have a more modern and a flashy approach to the game.
> 
> Peter's studio is part of St Paul's studios on Talgarth Road because I'm architecture trash and used to drive by them every time I visited my grandparents. https://secure.i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01569/p_barons-court_1569729i.jpg
> 
> I imagined Peter's art style to be a bit like J.C. Leyendecker but my attempts at illustrating were.... not the greatest.


	3. Across the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas throws caution to the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. Hope you are all well and staying safe. Hopefully, this chapter will be a distraction from all the crazy stuff that's happening. Content warnings and historical notes at the end.

_Phillip was pleased to find that Thomas Barrow looked even better up close. The man was striking to look at, with a face that looked like it was made entirely of cheekbones. Porcelain skin that made his lips seem almost red as they stood out in stark contrast and clear sky eyes that couldn’t decide whether they were grey or blue. He was like a racehorse, sleek and restrained with an arrow-straight posture but there was a restlessness about him that hinted at something else entirely. He was well-spoken but from time to time he slipped into his true accent when he became animated over something, revealing his working-class roots. Phillip wished he would drop the pretence and speak naturally. It was so much more attractive._

_With the introductions out of the way, Pelham suggested that they go into town to have dinner at Pagani’s since it was usually quiet on Mondays and one could usually get a table without making a reservation. A small fib since they had reserved a private room some days earlier. Phillip had liked the idea of going to Pagani’s as he had never been before. The place was bohemian enough that they wouldn’t be recognised but still nice enough for his tastes. Thomas, on the other hand, seemed reluctant and made some excuse about needing to be up early the next morning. Perhaps he was concerned over the price of such an establishment or perhaps he was worried that he didn’t have anything to wear._

_“I’ll pay of course, as you’re my guests.” Peter offered. Thank God for that. Pagani’s could charge up to two pounds per head if one went overboard on champagne._

_“You look to be about my size, perhaps we should go on ahead and I’ll lend you an evening suit.”_

_“Oh, that’s really not necessary.” Thomas protested. “And I wouldn’t want to impose.” The poor boy didn’t realise that he was the guest of honour at this particular outing._

_“No, no, I insist.” Phillip said, “In fact, I shall be offended if you refuse.”_

_Phillip flagged down a motor-taxi that took them to his mansion flat in Marylebone. His father had purchased it some twenty years ago to house his mistress but luckily hadn’t made any provisions for her in his will so Phillip had thrown her out on her ear as soon as the mourning period had ended. He had started using it as a pied-_ _à-terre as it was significantly cheaper to keep than Crowborough House which was more of a palace than a house and currently rented out to the Foreign Office as a much-needed source of income. Mama had been apoplectic with rage at the prospect of foreign diplomats using her bedrooms, but there wasn’t much else to be done. The flat was private and relatively anonymous, and aside from Peter and a few of his other friends, nobody knew he was staying there. He might have been ashamed of his humble abode, but it certainly helped keep up the impression that he was just an ordinary man as opposed to a Duke. Luckily, he had given his valet the night off on the off chance that the evening would be a success. He would have to tell Thomas who he was eventually if they decided to see each other again, but his title always intimidated people, especially those among the lower classes. Bowing and scraping and forelock-tugging were all very well with strangers but not with someone he wanted to fuck. Subservience had always repulsed him, killing the mood quicker than being doused in cold water. What Phillip really wanted was a big strong man who would take care of him, but that seemed almost impossible in his position._

_Once he had the other man in his dressing room, he delighted in dressing him up, drawing the moment out by trying out different ties and hats and gloves. The sight of Thomas in his undershirt left little to the imagination, it was so tight. The suit was a little small around Thomas’s shoulders and the trousers were a little loose around the waist much to Phillip’s shame, so he swapped them for an older pair from when he’d first gone to university and was slenderer than he was now. Overall, the ensemble didn’t look too bad. Phillip resolved to bring him to his tailor if the other man welcomed his advances. To his surprise, Thomas dressed impeccably, knowing how to properly button down his shirtfront, collar and waistcoat and tie his white bowtie into a perfect butterfly-shaped bow._

_“In hindsight, I think it might have been presumptuous of me to assume that you didn’t own a suit.” Phillip laughed._

_“It was,” Thomas smirked._

_“You have my apologies.”_

_“But it’s still in my travel case and I haven’t had it pressed.” Thomas continued, his accent slipping again, “And it was my uncle’s suit, so really, you’ve done me a great kindness.”_

_“Perhaps you could return that kindness by helping me into this blasted thing.” Phillip hadn’t been having as much luck with his own suit. There were so many buttons and straps that didn’t make any sense._

_“You have a valet, then?”_

_“Erm…yes. It’s his half-day.” Phillip said sheepishly, “Was it that obvious?”_

_“Just a little.” Thomas chuckled and grabbed Phillip’s partially buttoned collar in a way that made his heart skip a beat._

_Finally, Thomas collected a silver pocket watch from his waistcoat (now hung over the back of a chair) and passed the Albert chain through the middle buttonhole of his tailcoat. It looked to be of surprisingly good quality, and in surprisingly good condition._

_“I say, what a beautiful watch,” Phillip exclaimed._

_“Thank you. My father made it.”_

_“Oh.” Phillip hadn’t been expecting that. “He must have been very talented.”_

_“He was.”_

_“This might interest you then, as a horologist’s son.” Phillip teased and showed him his own watch._

_“Is that the Patek Phillipe 1889 Grande Complication? May I take a look?” Thomas said, voice full of wonder. Phillip handed it over, shocked at how his companion had recognised it on sight. “They made it with a perpetual calendar that shows the phases of the moon and when the sun rises and sets. But it’s five minutes slow. When did you last have this serviced?”_

_“Do you know, I have no idea.”_

_“You should learn to take better care of your things. This is one of the finest watches in the world, but it’ll be useless if you let it wear out.” Thomas said, handing it back and leaving Phillip feeling well and truly scolded. It set his blood racing._

_Once they were suitably dressed, they met up with Pelham in the artist’s room which had a wall graffitied with signatures and doodles from all of Pagani’s famous patrons. It all seemed a little crude to Phillip, if he had wanted to eat in a place where they scribbled on the walls, he would have had his dinner in a pub toilet. But Thomas had been charmed by a message penned by Jerome K. Jerome and J.M. Barrie, and Phillip had been charmed by Thomas so perhaps it wasn’t so bad._

_They had dined on the Petite Marmite, Steamed salmon with asparagus, crown roast lamb, and apricot frangipane tart. Peter directed most of the conversation and managed to coax their guest out of his shell even though he seemed ill at ease in their surroundings, likely more preoccupied with remembering his table manners than what was going on around him. Phillip noticed that Thomas had only had one glass of wine all evening and politely turned down the brandy and cigars the waiter brought round after the petit fours._

_“You don’t smoke, you hardly drink. Surely, you must have some vices.” Philip commented, wondering whether the object of his desire had crossed the line between disciplined and dull._

_“You’d be surprised.” Thomas retorted defiantly, looking him straight in the eye. Not dull at all._

_One of the benefits of loaning one of his suits was that Thomas would have to return it at the end of the evening, and thus would be more inclined to stay for a nightcap and then the night. But when Pelham bowed out to catch the last train home, he felt strangely nervous as they walked back to his flat. Granted he was usually drunker in these situations, and he usually didn’t spend a whole evening getting to know his prospective lovers. He was in unfamiliar territory, but he asked Thomas to stay nonetheless, his heart in his throat. Thomas said nothing, just pressed him against his door and kissed him. Suddenly all the layers of clothing they were wearing seemed unbearably constricting. Phillip had practically ripped that suit off Thomas's beautifully toned body._

_“Impatient, aren’t we?” Barrow chuckled._

_“You have no idea. I’ve been thinking about this all evening. Had we stayed any longer, I would have had you bend me over the dining table,” Phillip said, his voice hoarse with need._

_“You need to learn to be patient,” Thomas said and had proceeded to torture him for what felt like hours as he slowly stretched him out, and no amount of begging would make him speed things up. If he wasn’t being so contrary, it would have almost been tender._

*

Thomas awoke to the sound of curtains being opened, and the bright light of a spring morning. He was disorientated for a moment once he realised, he wasn’t in his room at the guest house. He had gone home with Phillip last night and now he was in bed with him while an elderly gentleman served them a breakfast tray. He almost screamed when he saw the man looming over them, they had been discovered. The servant left silently, no doubt to run for the police and Thomas felt as though he was about to have a heart attack.

Had he fallen asleep? He had only meant to rest his eyes for a few moments before he went home, but he must have slept through the whole night. He hadn’t intended to stay so long, hadn’t planned on going out in the first place, but he had been charmed by Peter and Phillip, as they preferred to be called. Aside from some of his uncle’s friends, who still treated him like a child, he had never spent time with people who were so open about who they were. Peter was kind and interesting and did his best to make him feel included even though he felt like a complete pleb in the richly decorated restaurant, always keeping the conversation to topics he would be able to participate in.

Phillip, on the other hand, was all good looks and charm and he had a quick sense of humour that had a bit of a mean streak. Thomas had found him funny but imagined it would sting if it was turned on him. He was also the most condescending man Thomas had ever met and he wasn’t sure if the other man was trying to openly mock him or if he was simply out of touch. In the course of one evening, he had insisted on dressing him up like a doll after wrongly assuming Thomas had nothing suitable to wear for an evening out. He had translated the menu and explained what all the dishes were, even though Thomas’s French was perfectly adequate. He had seemed personally offended when Signor Pagani came out of the kitchen to greet them and invited both Thomas and Peter to add their mark to the wall of autographs. Thomas suspected Phillip was someone important trying to go incognito if his behaviour that evening hadn’t given it away then his watch certainly did. He had seen an article on it in one of his father’s old horological journals, Queen Victoria had it commissioned as a Christening gift to her godson. It occurred to him also, sometime after the fact, that while it was possible that Pagani was a cricket fan (did Italians play cricket?), he couldn’t have known who Peter was unless he had visited earlier and made a reservation. They had orchestrated this together and made it seem like an impromptu night out.

He was attracted to Phillip nonetheless, perhaps against his better judgment. No one had ever blatantly propositioned him before or made a whole convoluted plan to get him to go home with him, and it had been flattering even if it had been dishonest. It wasn’t every day that mysterious noblemen tried to wine and dine him, so Thomas had thought ‘why not?’ and pinned him against the door if only to wipe that smug look off his face. Phillip had been more than enthusiastic. Apparently, he liked it when his partners took control. Thomas had never buggered anyone before, and his drunken experimenting with Alan Whittaker had left him poorly prepared for such an eventuality. Whit had never wanted to do that, as though it was a step too far even though he would happily let Thomas finger him open while he sucked his cock. Phillip had no such reservations. He was needy and demanding and Thomas had taken great satisfaction in making him wait, teasing him and drawing it out.

The lump beneath the covers next to him moved reluctantly and groaned.

“What’s the matter?” Phillip murmured sleepily, noticing Thomas’s agitation.

“That man just saw us.”

“Who?”

“The old bloke dressed as an undertaker.”

“I don’t think Hawkins would appreciate being called an old bloke or an undertaker. You needn’t worry about him. This is hardly the worst thing he’s caught me doing.”

“What?”

“He’s worked for my family for three generations, he’s not going to say anything.” Phillip said dismissively and held up a silver pot, “Coffee?” Thomas didn’t know what else to say to that, so he took the cup that was offered to him. It was rich and smooth and far nicer than the weak, watery version they served at the guesthouse.

Thomas dug his watch out of the pile of clothes on the floor. It was nearly half-past seven. He needed to be at Lord’s for training at nine o’clock. He had noticed riding the taxi yesterday that the mansion block was around the corner from Baker Street, he had gone to see it the first time he had come to London when he was seventeen and was extremely disappointed to find that number 221b didn’t exist. From there he would just have to carry on onto Park Road and he would be there in twenty minutes. He still had his kit in his bag so it would be easier if he just went there directly instead of going back to the guest house, maybe show up early and use the washroom.

“I really must be going.”

“So soon? At least stay for breakfast.” Phillip said. Placing the tray between them on the bed. It carried a plate of brioche buns with butter and marmalade, some soft-boiled eggs, and an abnormally crisp looking newspaper. Thomas hesitated. It did look delicious.

“Do you have breakfast in bed every morning,” he asked.

“Not every morning,” Phillip protested, his blush said otherwise. “I suppose you must think me very lazy indeed.”

“It’s your life. You can spend it as you please.” Thomas shrugged and cut the top off his egg.

While they were eating, the ancient valet, Hawkins, returned with Thomas’s clothes from yesterday that had been freshly pressed and folded and left them on top of the dresser.

“Will there be anything else, your Grace?” Hawkins said.

“No thank you, Hawkins. I’ll dress myself today.”

“Very good, sir.” The servant bowed his head and left the room closing the door behind him.

“Your Grace, is it?” Thomas said,

“Thomas, I-“

“It’s fine, I understand. Better not exchange any personal details. I suspected you were someone important but nothing like that.”

“How could you tell.”

“Your watch. It’s a very unique model, commissioned by Queen Victoria.”

“Please don’t be upset. I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Phillip explained. “I hope you won’t think less of me for omitting certain details.” He would have seemed sincere if he hadn’t been lounging naked on the bed, cock at half-mast, eating a mouthful of brioche.

“Oh, rest assured, my opinion of you hasn’t changed. Duke or not.” Thomas said sarcastically. The more he thought about the night before the more it began to seem like some sort of sick joke. Logically he could see how Phillip would want to be cautious, they had only met yesterday, but it stung, nonetheless. Perhaps it was because he secretly harboured some romantic notions of falling in love at first sight and living happily ever after, when matters of the heart weren't so easy, especially for men like him. 

“See, you are upset.” Phillip retorted. “I don’t see how this changes anything. Everything else I told you last night was true.”

“Was I just a game to you? Do you make a habit of slumming it among the hoi polloi?” Thomas asked, trying to stand his ground but hating how pathetic he sounded.

“What? No, of course not.” Phillip said, his voice softening slightly. “I’d never want you to feel disrespected, truly. Everyone gets so sycophantic when they learn who I am. I suppose I wanted to escape all of that for a while.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Thomas said defiantly.

“One of the many things I like about you. And I happen to like you very much. I was hoping you felt the same way.” Phillip sidled closer to him and rested his hand on Thomas’s knee. He felt his defences faltering. He did seem earnest, and their evening together really had been wonderful.

“Perhaps I overreacted.”

“Perhaps I could make it up to you.”

*

Thomas was amazed that he managed to make it to the cricket grounds on time. Phillip had led him to the most beautiful bathroom he had ever seen with a large enamel bathtub with clawed feet and a large brass shower head suspended above it. Phillip had laughed at how impressed he was, the smug prick, and told him that this was nothing. Lady Dysart had just had a bath installed with water jets and a wave machine, whoever she was. The water was almost as heavenly as Phillip’s lips as he kissed his way down his chest before finally dropping to his knees and taking him into his mouth. They had lost track of time and Thomas had had to dress hurriedly and left with a goodbye kiss and a promise to return in a few days. Hawkins helped him into his coat and handed him his kitbag when he reached the door, his expression blank and unreadable. Thomas never knew how to act around servants, let alone servants who had walked in on him committing an act of gross indecency. He never knew what to say, what to do with his hands. They were usually from a similar background to him; he could have easily been in their place if he had gone down a different path.

He tried to take his mind off things as he practised his drive with Harry Dean, his teammate from Lancashire and immediate neighbour at the guesthouse. They were close in age and Dean had joined the team the year before him, so they were often paired together for coaching.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast today.” Harry said as they took a break “Didn’t hear you get in last night, neither.”

“Congratulations, you’ve rumbled me,” Thomas said dryly. “Last I heard, it was a free country.”

“Come on. Who is she?”

“Miss Nona Yabusiness.”

“She sounds lovely.” Harry laughed, “Fine, don’t tell me. Only I thought you had a girl back in Manchester.” He was referring to Elaine, who would make regular appearances at his matches and who everyone assumed was his childhood sweetheart. What they didn’t know was that she was as attracted to her own sex as he was to his.

“What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” Thomas shrugged, slipping into the façade he had created for himself as being something of a lady’s man.

“You rogue.” Harry chuckled, “I heard you dined with Mr Hyde the other day.”

“I did.”

“What’s he like? I’ve heard some wild stories about him.”

“Like what?”

“That he can leap from a stationary position onto a mantlepiece,” Harry said.

“I heard Prince Ranji offered to make him Governor of Bombay, but he turned him down because he didn’t like the food,” Walt interjected as he had been eavesdropping on the conversation. That sounded rather implausible. Didn't the Viceroy appoint governors?

“I heard he has these violent episodes sometimes. Mr Hyde by name, Mr Hyde by nature, if you know what I mean.” Harry added.

“Well, I don’t know if any of those things are true.” Thomas clarified.

“Speaking of Prince Ranji, he’s coming back to England this season.”

“What? To play?”

“Yeah, he’s back at Sussex. Can you imagine playing against someone like that?”

“He must be getting on a bit, mustn’t he?”

“He’s the same age as Mr Hyde.”

*

The next day, Thomas came home to a telegram from Peter Pelham inviting him to the Coach Makers Arms later that evening with an address and after changing into a nicer suit and consulting his pocket map he set out on foot. Pelham was waiting for him at the bar and bought him a pint of ale.

“I hope you’ll forgive my clumsy attempts at matchmaking,” the other man said once they had sat in one of the panelled booths for more privacy. “Only Miss Mayfield has been quite melancholy as of late and I thought a new suitor would be just the thing to lift her spirits.” Of course, they were in public.

“Oh, it’s Miss Mayfield now, is it?” Thomas shot back “And who are you? Emperor Napoleon.”

“Actually, I’m Earl of Bellingham,” Peter replied.

“Earl of Bellends more like,” Thomas replied icily.

“Well, I’m not actually and Earl, my father has the title, I’m just referred to that way. But I’ll grant you that I might have been a bit of a bellend.”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have asked me outright.” Thomas pressed.

“I didn’t want you to be nervous. I thought it would be better if things happened organically.” Peter explained. “She really is quite taken with you.”

“Well, I can’t say the evening was a total failure.” Thomas conceded.

“I’m glad.” Peter said, “But that’s not the reason I asked to meet you this evening. The advertising firm I told you about, they want to meet with you. Apparently, they’ll be filming newsreels of the Test matches this year. You’ll be in every picture house in the country, and in South Africa and Australia. There’ll be a lot of people seeing your face, Mr Barrow. It could prove to be quite a valuable asset.”

“Won’t it seem a bit silly, me selling hair oil?”

“At least hear their offer. You can always turn them down if you don’t like their terms or if you feel it’s not enough.”

“I can meet with them on Monday afternoon. I’m back in Manchester this weekend, we’re playing York at Old Trafford.”

“Good man. I should tell you, in the interest of transparency, that they’ll be hiring me to do the artwork if you say yes. But don’t let that affect your decision.”

“Oh, I see.” Thomas laughed. Suddenly Peter's enthusiasm for the project began to make sense.

“They liked the portrait,” Peter said proudly.

“I just have one question," Thomas said. "Why are you illustrating magazines when you’re an Earl?”

“A man can have his passions, can’t he?” Peter chuckled, then sighed. “I don’t exactly get along with my family. I know it might seem like I'm playing at being an artist but this helps me stay independent and not beholden to people who can't stand me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise."

"It's quite all right." Peter reassured him, "Sometimes we have to find our own family. Like Phillip for example. He can be a pain but I honestly couldn't imagine my life without him." Thomas was surprised that his companion would care so much for Phillip. But if someone as interesting as Peter cared for him then perhaps the Duke was worth knowing better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Sexual content. There are some d/s undertones in Thomas and Phillip's relationship. Mentions of period-typical homophobia.
> 
> Pagani's was a popular restaurant that was frequented by many actors, artists, musicians and other celebrities of the day. It had a room with over 5000 signature. The aristocracy began to dine out at restaurants a lot more during this period following the example of Edward VII in the 1900s. It was cheaper than throwing dinner parties and allowed them to socialise with guests from different classes who would normally be excluded from the dining room.


	4. Bosie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the feedback on this story. It's been a challenge and hard not to go down research rabbit holes, but also a lot of fun. I have returned with news. Last week I defended my PhD thesis (via a video call since my university is closed for the covid-19 lockdown) and I passed. From here on out you may refer to me as Dr Orchidae.
> 
> Content warnings and historical notes at the end of the chapter.

_Phillip poured himself another whiskey as he waited impatiently for Thomas to arrive. He had ducked away from his social engagement that evening, some dull little soiree at Lady Beaconsfield’s, raced home, bathed, then spent the better part of an hour deciding what to wear. He eventually decided to just stay in his velvet dressing gown. If he came across as too eager, then sod it, he was eager. He had been practically counting the minutes until this rendezvous, his thoughts always turning back to a certain batsman. He wasn’t usually the type to meet his lovers more than once, but there was something about Thomas Barrow that had gripped him and refused to let go. Now here he was, watching the clock like some silly schoolgirl waiting for her beau. Thomas was only ten minutes late and it already felt like the end of the world. What if he was still upset with him? What if he didn’t come?_

_The buzz of the electric doorbell startled him. Finally. Phillip took a moment to fiddle with his hair, his heart in his throat, while Hawkins slowly shuffled downstairs to answer the door. Had he been less cynical, Phillip would have thought he was in love. Logically he knew this could only ever be a summer dalliance. By the end of the season he would either be engaged of packed off to America, and Thomas would go home to wherever the hell he came from. Leicestershire? Lancashire? He couldn’t remember. Whatever relationship they developed would have a definitive end date. And if even the thought of it made him miserable, it would eventually pass._

_Hawkins announced his guest and left with a bow, presumably for bed as it was already close to midnight. His old valet hadn’t exactly approved when he had found they had spent the night together, or when Phillip had informed him that they would be doing so again. But it wasn’t Hawkins’s place to question his decisions and he had done as he was told. Thomas was still in his day suit, dark navy with a matching waistcoat and still managed to look impeccable in it despite it being cheap. That was the advantage of being handsome, he supposed._

_"Sorry, G.B. dragged us all out for a pint this evening and it’s hard to get away from him once he starts talking." Thomas has said breathlessly._

_"Quite alright. Whiskey?" Phillip offered._

_Thomas looked over at the half empty decanter. "Looks like you’ve started without me."_

_“Well, you’re late. I was beginning to get bored.” Phillip said, letting his dressing gown fall to the floor. Thomas was startled that he was wearing nothing underneath. He was a little drunk and feeling bold._

_“That explains why you couldn’t answer the door yourself,” Thomas smirked. Phillip reached to undo his tie, but Thomas stopped him. “Hold on. Let me look at you.”_

_Somehow, his previous bravado completely left him as he squirmed under his gaze. The weight of Thomas’s eyes on him made his skin burn. If he looked in the mirror, he would certainly be blushing. Not just a like tinge to the cheeks but his whole face, neck and chest. He was also painfully hard. Oh God, what if Thomas was going to spend the whole night staring at him then go home and leave him in this state without so much as a kiss. Phillip didn’t know whether the thought was exciting or infuriating._

_“You’re beautiful,” Thomas whispered. Phillip had been called that numerous times, particularly during his Oxford days before too much rich food and port had softened his belly, but the way Thomas said it made him feel giddy._

_“Don’t be silly.”_

_“You can’t possibly be shy now after all this blatant exhibitionism.”_

_“I’m not an exhibitionist.” Phillip protested._

_“Yes, you are. I’ll bet you’re only happy when you’re the centre of attention.”_

_“I just wasn’t expecting this.”_

_“Would you like me to stop?”_

_“Certainly not,” Phillip said, too quickly. At first, he thought it was a threat but perhaps Thomas had sensed his discomfort and was showing genuine concern. “You’re not going to tease me all night again, are you?” he said after a pause._

_“That would be rather mean of me considering I’ve already kept you waiting,” Thomas replied, and Phillip sighed with relief._

_“Good. I’m all ready for you,” he breathed. Thomas raised an eyebrow and slipped his hand down to touch Phillip’s entrance, already slick with the personal lubricant he’d got on prescription for his ‘dry skin’._

_“Well, since you’ve been so good, I suppose you deserve my full attention.” Phillip’s breath hitched at the praise and he attempted to undress him for a second time as he pulled them both down onto the bed, but Thomas stopped him. “I said my full attention.”_

_This was going to be good. Or it would be it Thomas would get a bloody move on. He opened his eyes to see that the other man had taken a prophylactic sheath from his pocket and was proceeding to unwrap it._

_“What on earth are you doing with that? You’re hardly going to get me pregnant.” He laughed._

_“No, but it’s good to be careful. For both of us.” Thomas said firmly. Phillip didn’t know whether to find it insulting or sweet that he would be concerned for his welfare but quickly forgot all about it once Thomas finally entered him. All thoughts spiralling away on waves of pleasure._

*

“Did you like that?” Thomas asked as they lay in a tangle of sheets in Phillip’s bedroom. He was still fully clothed which was a bad idea in hindsight as his suit was now sweaty and soiled.

“Absolutely” Phillip sighed happily as he lay half on top of him, his head on Thomas’s chest. He was practically glowing with post-orgasmic bliss and Thomas felt a smug satisfaction at being the one who had made him feel that way.

“I didn’t embarrass you, did I?”

“The embarrassment was rather the point of it, don’t you think?”

“So, you like that sort of thing? Being humiliated?” he had suspected from the way the other man had reacted.

“That’s a part of it, yes, but it’s more to do with giving up control to another person.”

“Oh.” Thomas got the sense that they should have had this conversation beforehand. They had been lucky that they had both enjoyed everything they had done so far, but next time he would endeavour to talk through the things he wanted and let Phillip do the same.

“And I have a feeling that you’re the type who prefers to take control.” Phillip chuckled. Was he? He had enjoyed both their encounters immeasurably, had burned with lust at the thought of Phillip naked and waiting for him, but was that the reason why?

“What gave you that impression?” Thomas asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Well, I have this theory that those who are disciplined in their own lives are often good at disciplining others, so to speak.”

“Maybe. I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Oh, sorry, that was me.” Phillip chuckled, delighted at his own joke. Thomas rolled his eyes.

“I mean I didn’t know that was something people liked.”

“You could have fooled me. Personally, I first discovered I liked that sort of thing when of the schoolmasters at Eton gave me a caning in front of the whole classroom. He was absolutely gorgeous too, so there I was, absolutely mortified when I realised, I was hard as a blasted broom handle and just prayed that nobody noticed.” Phillip told him with a devilish glint in his eye. “And then afterwards I’d always think about it during my nightly activities, only in those versions he fucked me over his desk once he was finished.”

“And I suppose the poor man had no idea he was just encouraging more bad behaviour when he punished you?”

“Rather, I was an absolute terror. Eventually, they had to write a letter to my parents.” Phillip said, practically giggling at the memory. Thomas couldn’t imagine liking such a thing. The few times he had been on the receiving end of a cane in school had left him shaking and feeling as though he might burst into tears or punch someone. It hadn’t been anywhere near as bad as what his dad did to him, and his classmates had always been impressed at how he had barely flinched at the punishment.

“Is that something you’d like me to do?” Thomas asked. The thought of doing something like to another person repulsed him, even if it was only a game. He had always tried his best to keep his temper in check since his father had died, and while he had often spoken harshly and said things he later regretted, he had never raised a hand to another person. The few physical fights he had got himself into (mostly against Whit) had all been self-defence.

“Only if you want to,” Phillip replied, perhaps noticing how uncomfortable he was.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Thomas said, thinking that would be more polite than a definitive no. Perhaps he was worried about where something like that might lead if he let himself, just as he worried every time he looked in the mirror and saw traces of his father’s face, or said something hurtful that could have easily been parroted from one of his drunken tirades.

He rested a moment to collect his thoughts, grounding himself in the feeling of the bedlinens and Phillips smooth skin. The bed felt like a cloud, Egyptian cotton sheets as soft as silk. No wonder he had dozed right off the last time he was here. The room was large and airy with tall windows and tastefully decorated with potted ferns and forest green wallpaper. He hadn’t taken a good look at it last time, he was so shaken from being caught by Phillip’s valet. There was a giant gilded mirror facing the bed, and on the far wall above the chest of drawers was a portrait of a young man dressed a satyr that bore a strong resemblance to Phillip. It looked like Peter’s work. The contrast of sultry eyes and rosy skin with strong masculine features. Thomas almost fancied that the painting would grow old as Phillip stayed young and beautiful forever, like Wilde's novel. It felt almost obscene to have something like that on display. He knew this place was a glorified bachelor flat, but perhaps it was some sort of secret den where Phillip could indulge in his affairs without being caught. Not that he needed it. The laws were different for people like Phillip. He could probably bugger him in the middle of the street and people would throw him a parade, then haul Thomas off to prison when he was done.

“Do you really live here or is this where you bring all your lovers?” He asked.

“I’m flattered that you think I’m some sort of lothario, but I assure you this is my London residence for the time being.”

“Seems a little downmarket for a Duke.” Thomas pointed out, still a little suspicious.

“Well, I’m here alone for the season. Mama’s health isn’t what it used to be, so she decided to stay at Crowborough Castle. There really wasn’t any sense in opening up the London house with a full staff just for me.”

“You’re not hosting any parties?” Weren’t the aristocracy expected to throw extravagant balls every week when the season was on? Phillip worried his lower lip between his teeth.

“All right, fine. If you must know, I’m broke,” he said, finally. Thomas almost laughed in his face. “No, I’m serious. My father gambled his fortune away, exhausted all his creditors and now I’m a hair’s breadth away from bankruptcy. And then there’s all the death duties which I still haven’t paid yet and the building renovations that need to be done before Crowborough Castle falls down on our heads. And to make things worse, the only way I can get out of this is to make an advantageous marriage. And since women of fortune are few and far between in this country, it looks as though I shall have to continue my search abroad. I hate travelling, I get seasick.”

“All right. Calm down.” Thomas said soothingly. It was clear the situation had been weighing on the other man and he hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about it this candidly.

“I wouldn’t mind so much if my ruin was of my own making, but for papa to just drop me in it like this is really too much.” Phillip sighed. “He barely even acknowledged my existence when he was alive, and now I’m supposed to clean up his mess.”

“Couldn’t you just sell some of your land to pay off the debt?” Thomas suggested weakly.

“My dear, that would only be drop in the ocean. No, this is the only way I’m afraid. If I were to give up one thing, then it would set a precedent. I’d lose the land, then the house, then the silver, and before you know it, I’ll be selling my arse in Covent Garden.”

“You’re being very over-dramatic. Surely you could get a job before you turn to prostitution.” Actually, it was unlikely that Phillip would even get to that point. He was a cousin of the King of England for God’s sake, and probably a few other kings to boot, which was the sort of nonsense that meant something to people and opened doors that were locked to the rest of the world.

“A job?” Phillip said, his voice rising with indignation.

“Yes, you know, that thing where you work for someone and they give you money,” Thomas said sarcastically.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Phillip sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of your problems. It must be a real burden.”

“I know people have it harder than me. Truly. It’s just a lot of pressure to put on a man. And if I fail the whole Crowborough dynasty fails with me.” Thomas didn’t know how to reply to that and felt as though he had ruined the mood somehow by asking about it in the first place. It wasn’t that he was unsympathetic to Phillip’s situation, but it baffled him that he was so resigned to marrying for money. He didn’t know why he felt upset by the prospect. Phillip had never promised him anything, he could just be one in a multitude of lovers for all he knew, but it still hurt.

“I should go.”

“Must you? So soon?”

“I have an early train tomorrow.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“Back to Manchester, I have a match at Old Trafford this weekend.”

“Well can’t you just skip it.”

“No, Phillip, it’s my job. I’m scheduled to play every weekend from now until September.”

“When can I see you again?”

“I’ll be back on Monday. I could see you then.”

“I’d like that.”

*

Thomas trudged up the familiar route from London Road Station after the first day of the Rose match had ended. Yorkshire had won the toss and opted to bat first and were bowled out for 263. He walked through Piccadilly, onto Market Street, past the old infirmary building he had worked in as a medical student before they had opened the new hospital on Oxford Road, turned right onto Oldham Street and then home. The shop was still open even though it was getting late, so he let himself in through the front entrance. The displays of engagement rings and silver watches in the window glittered against their velvet-lined boxes. Thomas noticed a few of David’s designs among them. They were simple, bold and geometric, with rectangular cut stones. The bell above the door jingled, a sound that had been so constant throughout his life that its absence had felt strange and unnatural when he had first moved into the boarding house. He heard footsteps from the workshop as a young man with dark auburn hair came out from the back room.

“Thomas!” David cried when he saw him and swung open the door in the countertop and embraced him so fiercely, Thomas thought he might break a rib.

“Easy now, I haven’t been gone that long.” He said to his little brother, although ‘little’ was purely semantic as David was a few inches taller than him.

“Come through, I’ll put the kettle on.” David laughed. Thomas was about to follow him through to the kitchen when a black shape caught his eye, almost camouflaged against the dark stained wood of the countertop. It was a kitten, with a short black coat with a white spot under its neck that looked a bit like a bowtie and bright blue eyes.

“What is that?” Thomas said in disbelief.

“We found him behind the dustbins. In a right sorry state, he was. Isn’t he sweet?” David explained. However, upon seeing them the kitten’s fur stood on end, it’s tiny tail like a bottle brush as he hissed at them, as though he had taken umbrage with being called sweet.

“That’s one word for it.”

“I decided to name him Basher,”

“Basher?”

“Because he reminds me a bit of you, he has your eyes.”

“All kittens have blue eyes, you berk.” Thomas scoffed.

“And because he took a swipe at me when I first tried to pick him up.”

“You can’t call him Basher.”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly call him Thomas. Because that would get confusing and then we’d have to call you human Thomas.”

“Excuse me, I was here first,” Thomas said indignantly. “Christ, I’ve only been gone for two weeks and you’ve already replaced me.”

“Oh, and he lives in your room now.” David teased.

“What?”

“He was only supposed to be allowed in the kitchen, but now he owns this shop and everything in it. I keep finding hairs in the watch movements.” His uncle Jonathan said as he came up from the workshop. “How are you, lad? Good journey?” he asked as he put an arm around Thomas’s shoulders in a brief hug.

“Good. Thank you. I’ve brought you something. Don’t read the article, it’s too embarrassing, but I thought you’d like the illustration.” Thomas replied and retrieved an advance copy of Vanity Fair from his bag. The magazine had delivered it to him early that morning. The colour lithograph of Peter’s painting didn’t have the same depth of the original, but the lines were crisp, the colours vibrant.

“I’ll have to get this one framed.” Jonathan whistled as he flipped to the page in question and proceeded to read the article anyway. Over the years, he had constructed a small shrine made up of Thomas’s press coverage and memorabilia, a handful of photographs, newspaper clippings and a trading card from a cigarette packet. Thomas wouldn’t have had a problem with if he hadn’t insisted on hanging them up in the shop front for all to see, but the older man insisted it was good for business.

“This arrived for you this morning, by the way. It looks important.” David chimed in, sliding an ornately gilded envelope across the table. Thomas carefully tore it open to reveal part of the message.

_‘…request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of Miss Clara Lowry and Mr Alan Whittaker…’_

The wedding was set for June. To say Thomas was shocked was an understatement. The last he heard, Clara had been in a long-term love affair with his friend, and occasional beard, Elaine. Apart from a few mixed doubles matches with the two girls at the recreation grounds and a rather disastrous women’s suffrage rally, he hadn’t realised the pair even knew each other. It wasn’t that Whit had never shown an interest in girls before. For the most part, he seemed randy for anyone who was half-decent to look at, including Thomas, and for all appearances, it was a good match, but why had Elaine not written to him about it?

“Whittaker? Engaged?” David said, baffled as he read the invitation over his shoulder.

“Well, he was bound to eventually.” Thomas sighed.

“Are you all right?” his brother asked.

“Why shouldn’t I be? We haven’t spoken in years. It’s in the past.”

“Will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

*

“You have to go! I can’t show up alone.” Elaine cried. She had cornered him as he left the club changing rooms and proceeded to rage at him about the wedding announcement. He didn’t blame her. He was upset and his association with Whit was far behind him. He could imagine how she was feeling. Most of the spectators had left the grounds for the afternoon, she must have hung back.

The second day of play had ended with Yorkshire bowling them out for 390, but Yorkshire were a formidable adversary and who knew what Sunday would bring. Elaine was a regular fixture at his home matches, more for appearances than any real interest in the game.

“I didn’t realise they had been seeing each other. Why didn’t you tell me?” Thomas said.

“I wanted to, but I’ve just been in a daze ever since she told me. She just sprang this on me out of the blue and expected me to be happy for her.”

“What?”

“She said she doesn’t see how this changes our friendship and that everyone has to get married eventually. As though we hadn’t been in love since we were sixteen. That’s almost seven years of my life, Thomas. Seven years reduced to, I don’t know, a childish game or playacting in preparation for the real thing,” his friend lamented.

“Why don’t you just refuse the invitation if it upsets you so much?” Thomas suggested weakly.

“I’m supposed to be her bridesmaid, it would look strange if I didn’t make an appearance.” Elaine sobbed. Her usually porcelain skin had turned as red as her hair.

“Fine, I’ll go with you. But promise me you won’t-“ Thomas began to say when she burst into tear. “Oh, dear. Do you need to sit down?” he awkwardly offered her his handkerchief.

“I’m sorry to carry on like this. Only you’re the only person who knows and I’ve spent all this time pretending to be happy for her and it just feels like I’m dying inside.”

“Come on, now. There’s no need to cry. If she’s willing to leave you for Alan bloody Whittaker, then she’s clearly a fool and not good enough for you.” He took her hand in both of his, the lace of her gloves scratched his palm.

“It’s hard to believe that at the moment.” She looked as though she was about to tell him something else when Matthew Crawley came around the corner.

“I say, is everything all right? You both look like you’re about to be sent to the gallows,” the other man said as they sprang apart.

“Matthew. I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve come to all your home matches.” Matthew laughed brightly, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I should really be getting back to my father. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Elaine said quickly and left them outside the pavilion.

“Elaine and I were just discussing Whit’s engagement,” Thomas explained. It felt strange to talk with him after such a long absence. He hadn’t seen his friend since Dr Crawley’s funeral. Since then, Matthew had become distant, his letters were few and far between and Thomas knew that he had taken his father’s death a lot harder than he let on.

“Yes. I was rather surprised when I received my invitation. Are you all right?” Matthew asked.

“It’s ancient history.”

“What about Elaine? Don’t tell me she’s in love with him too.”

“I think she just feels as though she’s losing a best friend. How have you been?”

“Better, thank you. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. Honestly, since father died, I’ve just thrown myself into my work and thought of little else. Mother complains that she never sees me, and we live in the same house.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Thomas protested. “You’ve been dealing with a terrible loss. I’m only sorry I couldn’t do more to help.”

“You’ve done more than enough. He was always so fond of you. Why don’t you come home with me for tea? Mother will be delighted to see you again.” Matthew offered, eyes shining. 

“Oh, it would be unforgivable of me to visit home and not call on Mrs C.” Thomas laughed.

*

Thomas was lying on his old bed, unable to move because his furry namesake had jumped on his chest and curled up into a ball and was now snoring quietly. Perhaps David was right, Basher was rather sweet, his ears were like the softest velvet. His uncle tapped on the door before coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“How did you manage that?” he said eyeing the cat, “He scratches me to ribbons every time I go near him. Unless I bring him food, of course. He probably remembers the flea bath I gave him when we first brought him home.”

“Don’t look at me, I just left him to his own devices.”

“Right. Are you sure you’re all right about this wedding, lad? I know you and young Whit had your ups and downs, but I know you cared for him a great deal.”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that. It’s fine. Actually, I’ve met someone else.”

“Really? Well, that’s wonderful.” Jonathan said, his eyebrows raised with surprise.

“The only problem is, he’s a gentleman and he’ll probably be marrying soon as well. That’s what I was thinking about really.” Thomas sighed.

“Ah, well, at least you know where you stand.”

“Am I being an idiot? Carrying on with someone when I don’t have a chance with them?” Thomas asked. He had missed these types of conversations. Jonathan always seemed to know what he was going through.

“Of course not. You should enjoy it while it lasts. Think of it as a summer romance. Is it the bloke who did the portrait?” Peter? Why would he assume he was seeing Peter?

“No. Why would you think that?”

“You just look so lovely in it, I thought you might have been his muse,” Jonathan explained with a wry smile.

“I think he’s just good at making a flattering likeness... but he is nice. Listen, don’t tell David about this or I’ll never hear the end of it, but he got me a meeting at this advertising company for an endorsement deal.”

“Really? That’s incredible.” Jonathan said as he clapped him on the back. “Don’t accept their first offer, whatever you do. Believe it or not, but your mardy old face is worth something now and they should pay accordingly.”

“I’ll drive a hard bargain.”

“And this gentleman, you mustn’t get in too deep with those sorts. You don’t want some Bosie Douglas type coming in and ruining your life.”

Thomas laughed but worried that perhaps he already was in too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning - There is a consensual sex scene with light BDSM stuff. Discussions of kinks. Thomas's opinions are a little ignorant due to his own lack of experiences. Descriptions of past childhood trauma. Period typical homophobia.
> 
> Historical notes - I threw in some period-accurate safe sex. Mainly because as a medical student, Thomas would know that getting an STD or even a UTI was no joke as there were no effective ways to treat infection at the time. Rubber condoms were widely available and widely used at this time even though the sale and advertisement of contraceptives faced a lot of opposition. I also found out that people could only get lube on prescription which is pretty terrible when you think about it.


	5. Gentlemen vs. Players

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, after a few months of writer's block and general trying to stay sane in quanrantine, I have returned.
> 
> Historical notes and content warnings at the end.

May 1912

_Peter deeply regretted sending Thomas Barrow off into Phillip’s clutches. Perhaps that was too dramatic. Phillip wasn’t particularly nefarious, and Barrow didn’t seem to type to do anything he didn’t want to. Lately, he had been on a mission to introduce his friend to a wider variety of people, meaning people who weren’t in Burke’s Peerage. Peter didn’t have anything against the aristocracy but spending every season with the same handful of families was beginning to grow dull and, when it came to men like him, somewhat incestuous. There were only so many urnings among their ranks and Peter had somehow managed to work his way through all of them. Hurried trysts in the rose garden, frantic fumbling in the Eton dormitories, reading Byron and Shakespeare’s sonnets on the banks of the Cherwell, going to Lord Anstruther’s literary_ salons that were little more than thinly-veiled sex parties _. He suspected Phillip had done the same. Unfortunately, Phillip was a snob at heart and was far too invested in keeping up appearances to be seen socialising with artists and actors and all other walks of life. It was ironic because Peter knew for a fact that Phillip was particularly partial to rough trade. Hence Barrow._

_He had expected they would only have a fun evening with a handsome young man and, if Phillip was lucky, a fun night. What he hadn’t expected was how much he had grown to like Barrow within the space of a single day. He was hardly the empty-headed athlete Peter had anticipated, but rather a man of many talents who was equally comfortable discussing everything from the French impressionists to Eastern religions to Freud’s theories of psychoanalysis. Plus, he was gorgeous. Far too beautiful to be hawking hair products in his opinion. Peter felt as though he could paint him a million times and never get bored. In the end, it wasn’t that he regretted introducing Barrow to his best friend, he regretted not speaking up for himself and saying how he felt._

_Now he had to sit through Phillip mooning over his new lover and describing their bedroom antics in graphic detail. He knew he shouldn’t feel envious, and do his best to be supportive of his friend, but it was insufferable._

_“It really is a lovely portrait,” Phillip noted, looking at the Vanity Fair painting. The magazine had returned it that morning, rolled up in a cardboard tube._

_“Thank you. Thomas’s bone structure is so fine, it would be hard to make a bad portrait of him.”_

_“Rather. I find myself daydreaming about his cheekbones more than anything else. Which is saying something, because the rest of him isn’t bad either.”_

_“Quite.”_

_“Perhaps you could paint us. You know, together. I was thinking Achilles and Patroclus but perhaps that’s too obvious a comparison.”_

_“It is?” Surely, he couldn’t be comparing himself to Patroclus. Patroclus was loyal._

_“Would you be willing if I were to commission you?”_

_“Commission me? With what?” Peter snorted in a way that was most undignified._

_“Well, when I say commission, I mean you paint us in exchange for enjoying the view. Plus, you can say that you’ve had the Duke of Crowborough as a patron, it’ll give you some credibility.”_

_“You represent everything that’s wrong with the creative industries.” Peter sighed, he must have heard the same line a thousand times, and from people with far more money than Phillip currently had. Perhaps it was because they were from the same class, people just assumed that he was just painting for fun and not trying to support himself on his own. His father was fabulously wealthy, so why wouldn’t he simply go home and get his allowance back. They didn’t realise just how much his family despised him, with the exception of his cousin Bertie, and would only accept him back if he changed everything about himself. He suspected that if he hadn’t been an only child, and if there had been some sort of loophole in the laws of succession, his father would have disinherited him by now._

_“Have you even asked him if he wants to appear in a depiction of Grecian homoeroticism?” Peter asked._

_“No, but I don’t see how that would be a problem. It’ll be for my eyes only.”_

_“And what happens when your future wife finds it?” Phillip looked devastated, and Peter regretted bringing it up. “I’ll make you a counteroffer.” Peter said, “I’ll make some studies of him for the Battersby campaign and you can keep some of them when I’m finished. After Ruskin, I swore I would never paint you again. You are incapable of keeping still.”_

_“It’s not my fault you couldn’t afford to hire a professional model.” Phillip scoffed. “You like him, don’t you?”_

_“What?”_

_“Come on, now. This wouldn’t be the first time. Remember how we used to fight over Clive Aldrington?”_

_“Yes, before we found out he was the most notorious womaniser in the home counties.”_

_“I was devastated.” Phillip chuckled._

_“I daresay I’ve grown up a little since then.” Peter said with a forced smile, “Truly, I’m happy for you.”_

*

Thomas had been completely flabbergasted when after being offered one hundred pounds in the initial contract with Battersby’s Cosmetics. Still, he had his reservations. He had hired Matthew Crawley as his lawyer a few years ago and it had been a wise decision after he had been royally shafted by Woodbines cigarettes. He had been nineteen and an idiot, and Matthew had done one hell of a job fixing it. Since then he had consulted his friend for each of his season contracts with the exception of the one for the England team, Lancashire Cricket Club had sent one of their own to deal with that. Matthew had immediately written back telling him not to sign anything until he got there and within the week his friend had travelled to London and negotiated them up to three hundred pounds and convinced them to scrap their exclusivity clause.

“How on earth did you manage that?” Thomas asked with wonder as they left their final meeting. The amended contracts had been signed and Thomas had found himself with more money than he knew what to do with.

“All part of negotiating, Barrow.”

“That’s why you’re the lawyer and I hit balls for a living. I don’t even know what I’d do with that much money?”

“Well, as your lawyer, I would advise that you start with buying me a drink.”

“Of course. I’m actually meeting some friends after this, but you’re welcome to join us.”

“You’re finally making friends on your own. I’m so proud of you.”

“I have friends.”

“Who? Harry Dean?”

“Harry’s all right.” Thomas protested weakly. “You’ll never guess who I’m playing this week.”

“Who?”

“Prince Ranji.”

“Ranji’s back? I had no idea.”

“He’s back all right. Sussex almost forfeited their first match because he invited the whole team to a party at his house, and they were drinking all night.”

“Classic Ranji.” Matthew laughed.

“It almost makes up for the shambles with the Australian team,” Thomas said. Both the Australians and South Africans had arrived that week where it was announced that several of Australia’s key players had refused to play due to contract disputes and had stayed home. Thomas was disappointed that Victor Trumper was among them. He had wanted to see which of them would score more runs that season, but he would have to wait until the next tour. It meant that the Australia team, who had been their most formidable opponents in the tournament would be considerably weakened, which made the prospect of an English victory a foregone conclusion. A hollow victory in Thomas’s opinion, he never took much pleasure in playing against mediocre teams.

“I wish I could come and watch, but I’ll most likely need to work over the weekend.” Chorlton, Cavanagh & Mayer was one of the largest law firms in Manchester. Matthew had had lofty dreams of becoming a barrister but had decided to stay closer to home when his father had died. To everyone’s surprise, Whittaker had put a good word in for him at the company, and since he was their biggest client for both the legal concerns of the Aerated Bread Company and Whit’s personal affairs, they couldn’t exactly say no. It was some first-class nepotism in Thomas’s opinion, but he could hardly blame anyone for using their connections. Although the firm paid Matthew very well, they also expected him to devote his entire life to the company.

They arrived at Simpson’s Tavern where the dinner service was about to begin. They removed their hats and were scanning the room for an empty table when Thomas noticed a familiar figure in a tan tweed suit.

“Thomas! Over here.” Peter waved from a booth across the room. “Who’s this?”

“Let me introduce you to Matthew Crawley, my friend and attorney.”

“How do you do.”

“Matthew, this is Peter Pelham, the artist I told you about.”

“Oh, the Vanity Fair picture? Wonderful work, sir, very… flattering. You turned his sour expression into one of noble determination.” Matthew laughed as he shook Peter’s hand. Thomas glared at him and excused himself to buy a round of drinks, a pale ale for Matthew and himself and a gin and tonic for Peter.

“I like the people who sit for me to look their best, not that I had much trouble with this one.” He heard Peter chuckle once he got back to their booth.

“Since you brought your lawyer, Thomas, I assume the contract is settled.”

“It is. I’m all yours.” Thomas said light-heartedly. Peter looked down as though he was embarrassed. “I know it’s rude to discuss money, but Matthew convinced them to triple their offer.”

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“I simply made the argument that since the campaign will be international, the offer should reflect that,” Matthew explained. “And it was a paltry offer, to begin with.”

“Are you taking on new clients?” Peter asked. Matthew laughed but slid his calling card across the table, nonetheless. “Hang propriety, what shall you do, Barrow, now that you’ve made your fortune?”

“We were about to discuss that. I thought perhaps, now that I have enough savings, I should buy a house. Perhaps somewhere close to Old Trafford?” He had been thinking about it for a while now. Something modest, far enough from the smog of the city but close enough to visit his family, perhaps with a little garden he could sit out in. He liked the idea. Thomas Barrow: homeowner.

“Property is always a wise investment. But it would be better to diversify your savings and investments rather than buying a house outright and sinking all your money into it.” Matthew explained. “I can introduce you to some estate agents when you get home.”

“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen.” He stopped abruptly when he noticed Matthew. “Forgive me, I didn’t know we had a guest.”

“This is Mr Crawley.” Peter supplied, and turned to Matthew, “Allow me to introduce you to Phillip Villiers, Duke of Crowborough.”

“How do you do.” Phillip said but did not offer his hand.

“How do you do, your Grace.” Matthew replied. He looked nervous as if he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stand up or not.

“Only servants address me in that way. The correct honorific is Duke.” Philip corrected, with more than a little hostility, since he had made a point of correcting him in the first place. Phillip was always incredibly polite to ordinary people when he had the occasion to speak to them, so much so that his whole demeanour changed. Thomas had taken to calling it his ‘charming the plebs’ voice. He felt strangely privileged that Phillip felt comfortable enough to let him see his true self, even if that true self wasn’t always kind. He liked Phillip’s cutting wit, his occasional bouts of self-pity, his inflated sense of importance almost as much as he liked his affection and his vulnerability, not because he found them particularly charming, but because it was real, and it was honest, and very few people got to see it. He did not like it when it was being directed at his best friend.

“Mr Crawley has been advising us on savings and investments.” Said Peter, who was well versed in cleaning up the debris caused by Phillip’s acid tongue.

“Oh, are you a bank clerk, Mr Crawley?” Phillip drawled

“I’m a solicitor.”

“How fascinating. So, you work for Mr Barrow, do you?”

“Well, yes,” Matthew stammered, his ears turning pink with humiliation.

“We were at school together,” Thomas explained. “Different years but we were both on the cricket team. I wanted my affairs handled by someone I could trust.”

“What?” Phillip said with a degree of disbelief. It stung because what he really meant was what business did the likes of him have going to school with the likes of Matthew Crawley

“Which school?” Peter asked.

“Manchester Grammar.” Thomas said. “I was a scholarship student.”

“Never heard of it.” Phillip sneered.

“I suspect they just accepted me to strengthen their team.” Thomas joked.

“That is absolute nonsense.” Matthew protested. “You were top of you form for years. You could have been head boy if you’d wanted to.”

“You must tell us what Thomas was like as a boy.” Peter chimed in.

“The same as he is now, only smaller.” Matthew laughed. “I remember him being very neat, very hardworking, and very aloof.”

“Goodness, you really haven’t changed much.” Peter told him with a grin.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to think I’m beginning to come out of my shell.”

Much to Thomas’s embarrassment, Matthew went on to regale everyone with tales from their childhood. The time he had saved his father’s pocket watch from being thrown in the pond, and the time they been invited to attend Billy Barratt’s funeral and met the whole Lancashire Cricket Team, and the time he had nearly been arrested at a Suffragette march. Pelham was enthralled but Phillip nursed his whiskey in sullen silence. Suddenly he looked up and interrupted their conversation.

“Your name sounds familiar. Any association with the Earl of Grantham?” the question seemed to come from nowhere.

“Not that I know of.” Matthew replied. “And if there were, I would only be a poor relation.”

“Indeed.” Phillip said, pointedly.

“Well then, shall we get another round in?” Peter said, trying to change the subject. “Perhaps some steaks?”

“I really should be going.” Matthew said, and made up some excuse about needing to work on the Brunswick account.

“Let me walk you to the station.” Thomas said and grabbed his hat, but Matthew was almost out the door and he had to run to catch up. It was plain to see that Matthew was no longer embarrassed, he was furious.

“What an odious man!” Matthew cried once they were out of earshot. “What on earth was his problem?”

“I’m so sorry, I honestly don’t know what’s got into him.”

“The artist is all right but if he’s the sort of person you consider a friend, I’m beginning to severely doubt your abilities as a judge of character.”

“You mustn’t mind Phillip, he don’t mean anything by it.”

“Phillip?” Thomas froze guiltily. They rarely talked about that aspect of Thomas’s life since he had drunkenly tried to kiss Matthew after a school dance and frankly it had always been a source of awkwardness between them. Perhaps he should have been grateful that his friend hadn’t immediately denounced him as a pervert and gone running for a constable, but he still felt rejected.

“I mean…” he stammered. 

“No, no, it’s none of my business.” Matthew said. By then they had reached the entrance to Monument underground station where Matthew would take the Metropolitan railway to Euston then back to Manchester on the afternoon train. “Just take care of yourself, all right? These people operate on a different level to us.”

“Yes, but it seems as though class doesn’t make much of a difference in our case.”

“Still, I’d hate it if someone took advantage of you.”

“I’ll be careful.” Thomas promised.

“I’ll see you at the wedding if you’re not back before then. Good luck with the Sussex game.” Matthew said, and with a quick goodbye disappeared down the stairs towards the station.

Thomas walked back to the chophouse, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He knew that Matthew hadn’t exactly seen his lover at his best, but he had been secretly seeking his friend’s approval and had his hopes dashed. Not to mention that as well as his uncle, Matthew was the second person to warn him off Phillip. He tried to shrug it off. They just didn’t know Phillip as he did, hadn’t had the chance to see his better side. He didn’t know if he was in love with Phillip, at times like these he struggled to even like him, but their attraction to one another was so wild, so reckless at times that it overwhelmed him. There were things he loved about Phillip. He was worldly and sophisticated, and wildly uninhibited when it came to sex. Perhaps it was because there were very few people who would dare to judge him, of perhaps he simply didn’t care, but there was some strange catharsis in how Phillip could say and do as he pleased and get away with it. Perhaps that was why he liked it so much when Thomas knocked him down a peg because it was a novelty.

It had never occurred to Thomas that he would enjoy being in such a strange power dynamic. He hadn’t had any experience in those sorts of things, he had barely had enough sexual encounters to really find out what he liked. With Whittaker everything had been a competition, for dominance, for respect, for want of something better to do. Their play fights had an equal chance of becoming real fights or ending with them getting each other off or both. Phillip was different, he liked to be overpowered, and he liked to be taken care of.

“Good, you’re back. Shall we order?” Phillip said when he returned.

“That was incredibly rude of you.” Thomas scolded.

“I could say the same for you, bringing an uninvited guest.”

“This is hardly a dinner party and that hardly excuses your behaviour.”

“Very well, please send Mr Whatever-his-name-is my sincerest apologies,” Phillip said dismissively. “Now I think I might have the steak. What about you?”

They ate their dinner, the tension thicker than the melted cheese.

“How was the fitting?” Peter asked, doing his best to keep the conversation light.

“Wonderful, they were delivered this morning.” Phillip replied, “If you think Thomas looks good now, wait until you see him in clothes that actually fit.”

Phillip had grown tired of Thomas’s second-hand clothes and had dragged him to Gieves and Hawkes where he had been measured while the cutter had guided him through thousands of fabric swatches and buttons and styles. They had eventually settled on two sack suits (one in navy and one in brown) and a new evening suit. Phillip had suggested he get a Norfolk jacket and Thomas had retorted that the last time he had touched a shotgun was when his dad had taken him to shoot pigeons behind the Bradford Road gasworks. He omitted that later on his dad had got drunk and pulled the gun on him.

They had gone back for his first fitting the week before. Thomas had been captivated by his own reflection. He had once had a patchwork quilt Phyllis Baxter had made from offcuts from her father’s tailor’s shop. He had dreamed of owning a suit made from each of the different patches, but those fabrics were sackcloth compared to what he wore now, its fibres so fine he could hardly see them. Every seam was designed to flatter, every stitch filled with beauty and purpose. 

“Perhaps I should pay you back for the suits. They really are too much.” Thomas said. Phillip had been quick to put everything on his account without even letting him see how much everything cost. Of course, in those sorts of places, if you had to ask you probably couldn’t afford it. Thomas worried that he was putting himself even further into debt on his behalf, or worse, that he would hold it over him.

“Nonsense. I’m bringing you to this party with the express purpose of showing you off. What kind of man would I be if I made you pay for a new evening suit?”

“And what about the other ones.”

“Now, I won’t hear of it. They’re already paid for.”

Once they had finished eating, they took a cab back to Phillip’s flat to change for the evening. Peter had dropped his suit off with Hawkins earlier that day to save taking the train all the way home again. Thomas’s new evening suit had indeed been delivered; it seemed that one of the perks of being a Duke was that the best tailors in the country were willing to drop everything to finish an order in less than two weeks. Thomas doubted he would own anything this fine ever again. Even the buttonholes were beautiful.

“When you said this was a party for likeminded people,” Thomas began as he fixed his tie, “What exactly does that mean?”

“Anstruther likes to be pretentious and call these sorts of things his ‘literary salons’ but it’s really just a chance to gossip and get drunk. I don’t think anyone’s presented any sort of writing since Baron Corvo dropped in a few years ago.” Peter explained. That was reassuring. Thomas had imagined some sort of Bacchanalian orgy, which he personally found a little intimidating.

“People sneak off and fuck occasionally but it’s hardly expected.” Phillip added.

“And you’ve been doing this since university?” Thomas asked.

“Oh yes, we used to call it The League of Ganymede back in the day.” Peter explained, “We were trying to poke fun at the Uranians, so-called for their love of Uranus.”

“Only none of us would be confused with a nubile youth today.” Phillip sneered.

“Speak for yourself.” Peter laughed.

Lord Anstruther’s party was held in a set of rooms in Kensington, similar to Phillip’s flat. Peter was in possession of a set of keys and showed them up the stairs to the third floor.

“Peter, why do you have a key to this man’s house?” Thomas asked.

“It’s not exactly his house. He lives with his mother in Mayfair. This is more of a meeting place of sorts for men like us.”

“Like a safe house?”

“Yes, exactly.”

The air was thick with cigar smoke and tinny opera music played from a gramophone in the corner. To Thomas’s surprise, there were two footmen in full livery passing around trays of champagne.

“Is it safe to have them here?” he whispered. It occurred to him that is was safe for people like Phillip and Lord Anstruther, and even Peter no matter how much he tried to disavow his noble heritage. They could hire every rent boy in London if they wanted to, safe in the knowledge that their only punishment if discovered would be some unkind gossip while their lowly companions all got hard labour for soliciting and gross indecency.

“Oh, please. So many male servants are fairies, sucking cock might as well be listed as a job requirement.” Phillip said dismissively.

“Perhaps I’m in the wrong line of work.” Thomas tried to joke, but in truth, it sounded like a miserable existence. The way that Phillip mentioned it so casually made his skin crawl. If he had been a servant and Phillip had made a pass at him… well, he probably wouldn’t have minded in Phillip’s case, but he would have been keenly aware of the consequences of saying no.

Lord Anstruther himself was a tall, barrel-chested gentleman with curly brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked to be in his early thirties if Thomas had to guess. He had the kind of voice that carried throughout the whole apartment as he enthusiastically greeted them with a kiss on each cheek and immediately brought Thomas on a tour of the room, introducing him to every guest. Thomas should have been delighted to meet so many men like himself but as he was paraded in front of Sir This or the Earl of That, it became apparent that these men were not like him at all.

Finally, they came to a man sitting on a knole sofa who, with the help of a walking stick, struggled to stand to shake his hand. He was quite young, but moved like someone much older and, judging by the tremors he was experiencing, suffered from cerebral palsy.

“And this is Lord Ashton, the only genuine intellectual among us. Lord Ashton, this is Mr Barrow, the cricketer.” Lord Anstruther said.

“How do you do?” Ashton said, switching his cane to his left hand in order to shake Thomas’s hand. His name sounded familiar, but it took Thomas a moment before everything fell into place.

“How do you do. I believe we have a friend in common. Am I correct in thinking that you were once a pupil of Richard Meredith?” The other man seemed taken by surprise.

“You know Mr Meredith?” he asked, astonished.

“Yes, he was my English teacher.” Thomas explained.

“What a small world it is. Have you heard from him at all?”

“Fairly recently, actually. He’s on his way to becoming deputy headmaster.” He didn’t think Mr M. would appreciate him telling everyone about his long-term relationship with Thomas’s uncle.

“I should write to him. I used to send him all of my papers while I was up at Oxford.” Ashton mused. “He was the one who convinced my parents I was well enough to go to university in the first place. Without him, I imagine I would still be housebound in that infernal bath chair.”

“Yes, that sounds like him. When I was a boy, he was probably the first person who really believed in me.” Thomas said, “I’m sure he’d be glad to hear from you.”

Ashton seemed to be as much of an outsider as Thomas felt and Peter and Phillip seemed to be in an animated conversation with one of the other guests, so he decided to stay where he was. Ashton turned out to be a reader of classics at Oxford and was currently working on a new translation of Herodotus. After four or five glasses of champagne, their conversation had meandered towards the subject of Edward Carpenter, who had been a great influence on Ashton and, from the audience they had gathered, most of the party guests.

“Then you disagree that a man’s attraction to his own sex is inherently feminine?” Ashton asked curiously.

“I’m not arguing that there isn’t an intermediate gender, but sexual inversion and transsexualism are not mutually exclusive. Carpenter has a passionate turn of phrase, but his hypothesis is purely anecdotal. The actual medical research into these matters clearly shows that, while there might be some overlap, one does not preclude the other.” Thomas replied.

“Medical research? The only thing medical professionals want to do is lock us away in asylums until they find a cure for it.” One of the other gentlemen in their group declared.

“Maybe in most instances, but look the work being done by Havelock Ellis and now with Dr Hirschfeld in Berlin. They are of the opinion that these things are not through moral failings or mental illness but are a completely natural occurrence in all cultures and even within the animal kingdom.” Thomas argued, but his audience didn’t seem convinced.

“So, you’re a doctor now, Mr Barrow?” Anstruther sneered.

“I have a degree in medicine,” Thomas replied. “I might not be an expert in the field of sexology but I have read some of Hirschfeld’s publications,” or had tried to at the very least since no English language publisher would touch him and he had to make do with his limited German. In the end, he had asked Elaine to translate it for him. He was met with a few titters, but he couldn't be sure whether it was because they didn’t believe someone like him could get a degree or whether they found the word ‘sexology’ amusing.

“I terribly sorry, gentlemen, but would you mind if I steal Mr Barrow for a moment?” Phillip interrupted and practically dragged him out of the drawing-room and into a dim hallway. Both the bedrooms were occupied so they ended up locking themselves in the bathroom.

“What the hell are you doing?” Phillip hissed.

“What the hell are _you_ doing? You’ve been in a mood on all day.” Thomas retorted. 

“You were supposed to be here to meet my friends not leave me alone all evening to argue with a load of pseudo-intellectuals.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I got the impression that you didn’t want me around.”

“Only because you brought some blonde pretty-boy to dinner.”

“Matthew? Phillip, are you jealous?” Was that what this was all about?

“Of course I am! I know we haven’t exactly mand any promises to one another, but can you really blame me when you look like…” he gestured in Thomas’s general direction, “…you. And to make things even worse, Peter’s in love with you.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, he’s too polite, but I know that as soon as I leave for America, he’ll be all over you like a fly on shit.”

“Why would that bother you, if you’re still planning on leaving.” Thomas said angrily. They had argued about this far too often. Phillip was still resigned to cheating some poor woman out of her inheritance and Thomas still couldn't understand why he didn't just sell off some of his estate and be content with a more modest living arrangement.

“I’d just like to know that you’ll at least be a little heartbroken when I go.” Phillip said, sounding a little pathetic.

“Fine, I promise to give you a suitable period of mourning before I jump into bed with Peter,” Thomas said sarcastically. “Phillip, of course I’ll be heartbroken. There isn’t anyone else, Matthew has never had any kind of inclination in that direction,” he blushed, “Actually, I’d never done half the things we’ve done until I you came along.”

“Really?” Phillip said, somewhat mollified. “Why didn’t you say so? I would have tried to make it special.”

“I don’t know. I suppose I was embarrassed about it.”

“Have you ever been fucked, Thomas,” Phillip asked.

“No.”

“Would you let me?”

“I might consider it. If you can be on your best behaviour for the rest of the evening, be polite, and only speak when you’re spoken to.” Thomas suggested. Phillip loved that sort of thing and Thomas was happy to go along with it.

“Will I be punished if I can’t do it?” Phillip purred, clearly interested.

“No punishments, you just won’t get anything.”

“That sounds like a punishment to me,” Phillip said and kissed him. 

As they left the bathroom they came across Peter leading Lord Anstruther into one of the bedrooms. Peter glanced at them sheepishly but, true to his word, Phillip said nothing. They probably looked just as guilty, leaving the bathroom together.

"You see," Thomas said as the door closed behind them, "Nothing to worry about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings - Phillip shows some pretty toxic behaviour. This chapter also contains some old fashioned terminology for homosexual and transgender people that are accurate to the period but are no longer politically correct.
> 
> Edward Carpenter was a poet, philosopher, and notable early gay rights activist.  
> Havelock Ellis was a physician and sexologist credited with writing the first textbook on homosexuality. Although he believed in eugenics which isn't great.  
> Magnus Hirschfeld was a German physician and sexologist who was an early advocate for gay and transgender rights.


	6. Howzat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a long time but I've finally got some enthusiasm back for this story. Sorry for the delay.

_Phillip had upheld his side of the bargain and made it to the end of the party while being on his best behaviour. If the other guests found his quietness out of character, they didn’t say anything. He would usually use such gatherings as an opportunity to vent about all the insufferable people he had to socialise with during the season, all the wealthy social climbers who shamelessly pushed their daughters at him. They were rich, but not rich enough._

_Phillip didn’t usually care to top and the men he usually slept with weren’t the sort who would submit to buggery, but the idea of being the first man to fuck Thomas Barrow had him captivated. The fact that Thomas had made him work for it made it all the better. He had been painfully hard all evening as he had to bite his tongue at every vulgarity uttered by his friends as Barrow looked on, amused by his discomfort. Thomas hadn’t been keen on using corporal punishments during their lovemaking and seemed unlikely to change his mind on the subject. Phillip didn’t mind that much because his daring and creativity in the realms of other kinds of punishment knew no bounds. When Phillip had been too impatient, he had been sent to kneel in the corner all evening while Thomas casually read the paper. When he had been too lazy to get up on a Monday morning, Thomas had made him jog around the park with him for half an hour, then fucked him mercilessly when they got home when Phillip could only collapse face-first onto the bed, his heart pounding in his ears, his chest on fire._

_When they had left the party and were safely ensconced in his flat, he had felt strangely nervous. He hadn’t done anything like this since he had been with Peter. Thomas seemed to sense his hesitation and quickly took the lead. The sensation of him grabbing fistfuls of Phillip’s hair as he rode his cock, using him for his own gratification, left him breathless. He’d had dreams of making it romantic, of taking Thomas back to Crowborough Castle and making love to him in front of a roaring fireplace, but in the end, all they needed was each other. Crowborough Castle had a mildew problem anyway._

_Those same hands that had grabbed him so roughly began to gently caress his hair. “How could I want anyone else when you’ve been so good?” Thomas whispered, and Phillip came undone._

_Thomas had not only calmed his jealousy but had made him feel silly for ever doubting him in the first place. He knew he had no right to feel the way he did when he was due to leave by the summer’s end. He knew Thomas was unhappy about it. They hadn’t made any promises, couldn’t under the circumstances, but the date of his departure loomed heavy over them, igniting their passions and weighing upon their hearts in equal measure. Thomas wasn’t like the other men in their crowd, who had grand romantic notions of themselves but would ultimately give themselves over to marriage and family duty. Nor was he like men of his own class, who didn’t see what they did as anything beyond a sexual release. Thomas was something else entirely._

_He had managed to put his jealous thoughts of Matthew Crawley to one side when the following week he ran into Evelyn Napier at a dinner for some Ottoman diplomat. He had little interest in politics, but the dinner was being held at Crowborough House and he was technically the host. He knew Napier from school where they had been in the same form, which the other man seemed to think counted as them being friends. He was complaining at length how he had been burdened with squiring their guest around London during his stay. Phillip didn’t think it was such a terrible job, the Turk was rather beautiful, and he could think of quite a few cultural activities they could engage in. He had just about gone into a trance of boredom when the name Crawley came up again._

_“I’m sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?”_

_“I said isn’t it a shame about Patrick Crawley.”_

_“Why? What’s happened to him?” It took him a moment to remember who Napier was talking about. Patrick Crawley had one of those faces one forgot while they were looking at it. He had apparently been in their form as well although Phillip had no memory of this. He knew that his father was heir presumptive to the Earl of Grantham. They had attended a lot of the same parties last year. He had danced with one of Grantham’s daughters at some ball or other and subsequently had been invited to dine with them shortly after. Patrick had been a bore as usual and the rest of the family hadn’t been much better. One of the footmen had looked like he would be more at home on a farm than in a dining room, and perhaps if he had been a little older and better looking, Phillip might have found it charming. The other was handsome enough but too slight for his liking. Overall, it had been a wasted evening._

_“Haven’t you heard? He and his father went down with the Titanic.”_

_“How terrible,” Phillip said._

_“It’s been a real blow to his family.” Napier agreed, “And to make it worse, Lord Grantham has to contend with his only living heir being a complete stranger. Some lawyer from Manchester apparently.” Phillip’s blood ran cold. There couldn’t be two lawyers from Manchester named Crawley, could there? “He stands to inherit the title, the estate, Lady Grantham’s fortune, everything. Mary’s absolutely devastated. I suspect they’ll attempt to contest it somehow.” Phillip’s ears pricked up at the mention of a fortune._

_“How would they do that?” he asked._

_“They would have to fight the entail, I suppose. They would have to pass a law in parliament, but if they were to succeed Lady Mary would stand to inherit the whole estate.”_

_He remembered Lady Mary. She was young and silly like most ladies who were recently out, but she had a head on her shoulders at least. She was beautiful, perhaps a little straight up and down in her figure, but in his case that was hardly a bad thing. It might work. There would be some years before she came into her full inheritance but perhaps Lord Grantham would loan him enough to tide them over. Better still he wouldn’t have to go to America. He could keep seeing Thomas, maybe not as frequently but they could find a way. Cheating Matthew Crawley out of his inheritance was just a bonus. If anything, it would be a favour to him. What would a solicitor know about running an estate? It would be like giving a donkey a bicycle and expecting him to learn to ride it._

_“I had no idea. I really must write and offer my condolences.” Phillip said, wondering when Lady Mary would be out of mourning. Had she been engaged to Patrick? He didn’t remember any announcements, but he could easily have missed it. He hoped not, otherwise, he would have to wait a whole year for her to show her face in public again and by then it would be too late._

_*_

Thomas had awoken the morning after the party, sore and exhausted in Phillip’s arms. He remembered the events of the night before and groaned. They had both drank too much and got into an argument, then patched things up again by sleeping together. Thomas had noticed this was beginning to become a pattern in their relationship. Sex didn’t solve any of their problems, it just created a distraction.

“Where are you going?” Phillip groaned, clearly a little worse for wear.

“I have to go to Peter’s, remember? For the photoshoot.”

“He was still drinking when we left, he’ll be out of commission all day, I’d imagine.”

“He’d better not. This is the only day I can do it until after the test matches and by then it’ll be too late.” Thomas huffed.

“He must have been drunk if he went to bed with Anstruther.”

“Oh?”

“Things didn’t end well between them. Hugh is the sort of man who wants to sleep with everyone who’ll have him but doesn’t have the decency to be honest about it.” Phillip explained. “Peter probably wouldn’t have minded having an open relationship if they’d agreed to it from the beginning, but Anstruther wouldn’t even consider it. If you ask me, he probably enjoys lying about that sort of thing.”

“Poor Peter, I hope he’s all right.”

“Why don’t you just stay here?" Phillip purred seductively, running a hand up Thomas's thigh. "I have a garden party to go to, but I’ll send my apologies to Lady Marlborough and we can stay in bed all day.”

“It’s very tempting, but I have to go. Why don’t you send your apologies anyway and come with me?” Thomas said, stopping himself from making a joke about not being trusted to be alone with Peter. After the fight they’d had last night it was probably too soon and Phillip wouldn’t find it funny.

“No, I should at least make an appearance. Perhaps I’ll leave early and catch up with you. I hate that I have so many social engagements. Otherwise, I’d follow you to Sussex and show you around Crowborough Castle. Mama would be delighted to meet you, although she would probably compete for your affections, knowing her.”

“My first Test Match is at Lords in two weeks. I could get you a free ticket?” Thomas suggested, even though he knew that Phillip was more interested in canoodling at his country estate than actually watching him play.

“Why? Do you want me to cheer you on?”

“Only my family will be coming down from Manchester to see it and I thought maybe I could introduce you.” Phillip’s face darkened.

“You haven’t told them about us, have you?” he said cautiously.

“No, but they know there’s someone.”

“No one can know, Thomas. I’m sure your family are all very lovely and understanding but it’s absolutely out of the question. If anyone got wind of this I would be ruined. Ruined and notorious.”

“Fine, forget it." Thomas conceded. "This is coming from a man who just invited me home to meet his mother?”

“Oh, please! You pass so well you could bugger me in the middle of the cricket field, and everyone would think it was just spirited roughhousing.” Phillip said flippantly.

“Cricket pitch. The middle of the field is called the pitch.”

“See. No one would ever suspect.” Phillip laughed “There once was a sportsman named Barrow, who was thought to be straight as an arrow, but when he left the field, it was later revealed, he was fucking the whole team at Harrow,”

“Glad to see that Literature degree is being put to good use.” Thomas sighed. Phillip barely read anything beyond the society pages, his days of pouring over Shakespeare and John Dunne were long behind him, but he had a knack for making up dirty limericks off the top of his head. Phillip grinned and snuggled closer to him.

“Do you have to leave right away?” he whispered suggestively, and any annoyance Thomas might have felt fell quickly by the wayside.

*

“I really must apologise for my appearance,” Peter said as he answered the door in his dressing gown and pyjamas. 

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” Thomas apologised, blushing a little at the memory of what had made him late. Part of why he was so infatuated with Phillip, in spite of his many faults, was that he was so uninhibited in his desires, in private if not in public. Granted, Thomas didn’t have much to compare him to, but to have someone lust after him so shamelessly was quite intoxicating.

“Think nothing of it, I was sneaking in a quick nap before you arrived.” Peter laughed.

“Had a late one, did you?” Thomas asked. Peter had still been at the party when he and Phillip had said their goodbyes at half-past two.

“We were still drinking at five in the morning,” Peter informed him as he led him up to his studio. “I ended up taking the first train home. How on earth are you so chipper?”

“Well we left quite early by comparison,” Thomas said. “Would you rather we rescheduled?”

“No, not at all. We’re on a tight deadline. I’ll be fine,” Peter reassured him, “Besides I need to show you my new toy.” He opened to door to the studio to reveal a folding camera on a tripod. “Isn’t it great? Unfortunately, I’ve had to empty my store cupboard to make a dark room, hence the clutter.”

“Why not send them to a developer?”

“That might not be wise.” Peter said, and Thomas wondered about the sort of pictures he had been taking. “Besides, I like to have full control over my processes.”

They made the most of the morning light. Thomas let himself be dressed up, styled, and posed to Peter’s liking, in his cricket whites in the back garden, with a comb in front of the bathroom mirror, holding a champagne glass in his new evening suit, all the while trying to convey that he owed all his success in life to Battersby’s Brilliantine. He felt ridiculous. Later, Peter began his painting, posing Thomas is his cricket whites with his hair slicked back until it was as shiny and black as patent leather, his cricket bat slung casually over his shoulder. Peter enthused over the striking contrast between the white of his clothes and skin and the blackness of his hair. If the poster colours faded in the sun it would only make the contrast more pronounced. The photographs that were approved would be painstakingly copied and cast into plates for the print ads while the painting would serve as the basis for the company’s poster campaign which would be offset printed in four colours. Peter patiently explained the different printing processes to him, the benefits of offset printing over letterpress and the process of developing his own photographs. Thomas tried to stay still, even though his shoulder ached, and just enjoyed the sound of the other man's voice. Peter was knowledgeable on all sorts of topics but once he got going on a subject that genuinely interested him, he could talk for hours.

“I know this might sound silly, but perhaps when you aren’t so busy you could model for me again sometime,” Peter said, “For real art this time, not this trash. I could pay you. Not much but enough for your trouble.”

“I won’t accept money from you when you’ve helped me so much.” And really, Peter was partially responsible for half his salary that year. “I would love to, but I’ll be back in Manchester once the Test series is over.” God, that was only two months away, and he would have to leave. Phillip had made grand declarations of love to him, usually, at the point of climax, but they were declarations nonetheless. Would he wait for him until the next time he could make it down to London or would he forget about him?

“You could stay in the guest bedroom. Or I could come and see you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been up north but, believe it or not, I was raised in Northumberland.”

“I had no idea.” Thomas laughed. Toffs all sounded the same whether they were from Cornwall or Aberdeen. “I said Phillip could join us later, I hope you don’t mind,” Thomas said, remembering the arrangements he’d made.

“Of course not,” Peter said. “Is everything all right with the two of you. You both seemed rather tense yesterday.”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing.”

“I couldn’t have been nothing if it merited a bathroom shouting match.”

“Oh, you heard then.” Thomas sighed, “He was jealous. Jealous of Matthew, can you believe that?”

“Well, you did seem very close.” Peter crossed his arms.

“We’re just friends. I may have tried to kiss him once, but he wouldn’t have me.”

“And there it is.”

“It just never occurred to me that someone like Phillip would feel that way. He’s handsome and rich and knows all the right people. What could he possibly feel insecure about?” Thomas protested.

“I know it might look like that from the outside, but Phillip’s only human. A wealthy upbringing doesn’t necessarily make for a happy childhood.” Peter said, thoughtfully.

“I suppose not.” Thomas conceded.

“His father practically abandoned him; you know. His parents would never have done something as scandalous as get divorced, but they lived separate lives. And then he died of course when Phillip was still quite young. His mother on the other hand absolutely dotes on him but only when he appeals to her vanity. I’m not saying this to excuse him, of course, but you can see how that could be confusing for a child.”

“Have you been reading Freud again?” Thomas laughed, “In any case, I’m not sure what I’m to do. I’m supposed to be going to this wedding soon but after the way he reacted to Matthew, I’m not sure it’s worth telling him.”

“And I presume that the groom is someone to truly worry about,” Peter said knowingly.

“Well, not exactly, we haven’t spoken in years. I’m surprised he even invited me, really,” Thomas explained, “Only now I don’t know whether to talk to Phillip about it or not. If I don’t, I’m keeping secrets from him, and if I do, he might be upset. It’s a lose lose.”

“Well, Phillip has plenty of past lovers that he still talks to. It would be rather hypocritical of him to be angry at you for doing the same.” Hypocritical seemed to be Phillip’s middle name if their conversation that morning was anything to go by. Refusing to let him tell anyone about their relationship while suggesting that they cavort around Crowborough castle and risk being caught by any of his servants. Of course, Phillip barely saw servants as people, it probably didn’t even occur to him that they might go to the police or blackmail him.

“Who?” Thomas asked.

“Me, for a start.”

“Oh.”

“Are you shocked.”

“No, it’s just… he seems so fixated on…”

“Rough trade? Yes, I know. That’s why it was short-lived,” Peter laughed.

“He also told me about Lord Anstruther.”

“Hugh? Of course, he would. That man is the worst gossip I’ve ever met.” Peter said, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

“Well, we did sort of catch you in the act.” Thomas said weakly.

“I met him at my first summer show at the Royal Academy. He bought both of my paintings and commissioned me to paint a portrait of his mother at his house in Harrogate. He was only a Baronet but had more money than he knew what to do with and one thing led to another and before I knew it he was renting me this house and introducing me to all these people who wanted to buy my work. I was down to my last penny at the time and it all seemed too good to be true. So, you see, he broke my heart, but I wouldn’t be where I am without him. That sort of thing leads to all sorts of conflicting feelings.”

“That does sound very complicated,” Thomas said. The tale made something sick and uncomfortable rise up inside him. “I suppose I was surprised you would be interested in someone like him.”

“Call me old fashioned if you want to, but beauty has never mattered to me as much as character. But perhaps that’s because I’m not blessed with good looks and had to learn to be interesting instead. I just want someone I can have a conversation with, is that too much to ask?”

“No, I don’t think it’s too much. Only he didn’t seem to have much in the way of character either. And I expect you’re only fishing for compliments since you’re not bad looking at all. In fact, I think you’re quite…”

Before he could finish his sentence the doorbell rang. He glanced out the giant studio window to see Phillip on the front steps waving up at them. Thomas felt his stomach churn. Here he was, about to declare that he thought Peter was quite handsome indeed while his lover waited from him outside. What sort of man did that?

“Sorry I’m late, you know how these things go.” Phillip sighed and noticed how strained the atmosphere seemed in the studio. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, it’s just been a long day.” Peter said calmly, “But I think we’ve achieved everything we set out to accomplish. How’s that do you think,” he turned his easel to reveal his work in progress.

“Oh, it’s very modern isn’t it?” Phillip said, assessing the portrait. “Very stark.”

“Well, it needs to be striking to the eye.”

“Then I daresay you’ve done very well.” Phillip laughed. “Is that a camera? Oh, Peter, you simply must take a picture of us together.” He turned to Thomas, “So you’ll have something to remember me by.”

“What do you think Thomas?” Peter asked.

“Is it safe?” Thomas asked warily.

“I’ll destroy the negatives. Only the two of you will have copies.” Peter explained.

“I suppose that wouldn’t be too bad,” he conceded, as long as it was something just for them.

“Ooh, take your shirt off,” Phillip said excitedly. “No, take everything off but leave the shin pads on.”

“We’re fine as we are,” Thomas said firmly as the pair of them sat together on Peter’s loveseat and smiled for the camera.


	7. Rain Delay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas wins his first Test Match, goes to an impromptu stag party, and realises some things about his relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had the worst writer's block with this story. Thank you so much for bearing with me and for all your lovely comments and support. It really means the world to me and I'm powering through. I hope you all manage to have a happy Christmas/holiday season despite these horrible times.

June 1912 London

Peter had decided to make an appearance at the England v. South Africa match. Thomas had given him his ticket. He suspected Phillip had refused to attend and he hadn’t wanted it to go to waste. Peter had very little interest in cricket, despite trying to learn more about it once he’d met Thomas. Still, he was content to watch the other man from a distance, or he would have been if the match hadn’t been delayed.

His eye was drawn to pair of gentlemen a few rows in front of him in the stands as most of the attendees filed out of the cricket grounds. The first bore a striking resemblance to Thomas if he were older, rounder, and had a moustache. The other was tall and pleasant looking, still more a youth than a man, with a thick mop of auburn curls. He didn’t know what possessed him to approach them, but he was curious about the kind of family that would produce a man like Thomas.

“Mr Barrow?”

“Yes?” the gentleman said, surprised that anyone there would know him.

“Ah, I thought it was you, the family resemblance is uncanny. I’m Peter Pelham, Thomas’s friend.” Peter explained.

“Oh, so you’re the artist. I must say it’s strange to see your nephew on a twenty-foot sign outside the chemist’s.” Mr Barrow chuckled. Peter laughed nervously. Ever since the advertisements had been rolled out he had been second-guessing himself. Were the eyes too sultry, the lips too red? Every line and curve seemed to betray his desires, and now they were pasted on every available surface in the country.

“It’s strange to see my work on the Underground. Thomas was an excellent model,” he said weakly.

“Really? He won’t stop complaining whenever I draw him,” the younger gentleman commented with a knowing smile. “I’m David Barrow, it’s good to meet you.”

“It looks like they won’t be starting any time soon. We were thinking of having a wander around the National Gallery. Would you care to join us?” Mr Barrow suggested.

As the three of them wandered through the hushed halls hung with Titians and Tintorettos, Peter couldn’t help watching his companions. He marvelled at the easy way they joked with one another and reflected sadly on his own family. His father signed all his letters to him as ‘Lord Hexham’.

Eventually, they came to the looming figures of Holbein’s Ambassadors, with its intricate tapestries and scientific instruments, and its anamorphic skull that cut diagonally across the bottom of the canvas like an unsightly smear unless it was viewed at the correct angle.

“What do you think it means? A memento mori perhaps? Or a symbol of the hostilities between England and France?” Peter whispered.

“I think he just learned a new type of perspective and wanted to use it,” David replied. “I heard that it was intended to be hung at the top of a flight of stairs so you could only see the skull as you approached. Probably wanted to give the ladies a fright.”

“It certainly gives me a fright.”

*

Thomas’s test debut had been a disappointment. It had been the wettest week of what was quickly becoming the rainiest summer on record, and the pitch had been so damp that they’d had to delay the match well into the afternoon. The South African team were all out for 58 on their first innings which had lasted all of ninety minutes. Then Hobbs and Rhodes had taken things in their stride and fared much better.

Jonathan and David had travelled down that Monday to see him play, insisting that they weren’t going to miss his first Test match for anything, although they had also arranged some meetings with Jonathan’s diamond broker in Hatton Garden. Their shabby hotel was packed with other fans, many of which were deeply impressed to find they were relatives of the great ‘Basher’ Barrow. Thomas had arranged to return to Manchester with them, as the wedding was the day after the match, and he was due to play at Old Trafford on Friday.

When he met up with them at the end of the day, he was surprised to find that Peter was with them. The trio were chatting as though they had known one another for years. It warmed his heart to see them getting along, although the reason why made his heart sink. He had been seeking out Peter’s company as of late, as Phillip’s social calendar kept him busy, meeting the other man at the pub after training or going out for dinner. The conversations were always easy, the companionship relaxed and amiable. As much as he tried to avoid thinking about it, he was attracted to Peter, and he didn’t know what to do.

Phillip, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. Not that Thomas had expected him to change his mind and show up, but he had hoped. What hurt the most was that Phillip seemed to have forgotten he was playing at all. Since he generally had Mondays off as a rest from his County Championship matches, he would usually spend them with the Duke. But when he returned to the boarding house that evening there had been a postcard waiting for him.

_To Mr Thomas Barrow,_

_Where were you yesterday? Wore my best perfume for nothing. Hope you haven’t forgotten about me._

_Kisses._

Naturally, everyone had teased him about stringing some girl along, which was a nice change from being teased about the Brilliantine ads.

Although the note was anonymous, it had rattled him. He and Phillip had specifically agreed that there would be no letters or telephone calls and would always arrange their next meeting in person. A postcard, that was left out for anyone to see, felt very pointed. He had burned the note in his fireplace, then after some consideration, he burned the photograph of them together as well. Peter had made two prints for them the same day it had been taken, then burned the negative. The photo was tiny, no bigger than a bus ticket, and there was really nothing openly criminal about it, but the ease and intimacy of Phillip’s arm around him couldn’t be explained away. He had been so aware of it, it practically burned him through the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He couldn’t leave it lying around for the maids at the boarding house to find, but as long it was on his person he was terrified of dropping it. He had considered hanging on to it until he returned to Manchester that week for Whit’s wedding, where he could keep it in his room, but realised that he didn’t care enough to keep it. The thought was alarming.

He liked Phillip when the Duke was in a good mood at least, and he liked sleeping with him even more. That had all been fine when they had just been having fun, but now it didn’t feel like a good enough reason to stay with him. Phillip had never treated him particularly badly, but it was clear that he didn’t respect him. What worried him was that Phillip wasn’t exactly the most reasonable man and he had no idea how he would react if Thomas left him. He only had two months left in London before the Tournament ended. Two months wasn’t _that_ long, and he would be busy with matches for the majority of his remaining time in London. Perhaps he could wait it out then quietly go home and conveniently forget to give Phillip a forwarding address. Then Phillip would go off to America and hopefully forget all about him. It was the coward’s way out, but it was also the safest.

By the third day of the match, England had won by an innings and 62 runs with Thomas managing to score a century on the second day. It had been a strong debut given the difficult conditions. They stayed for a celebratory pint at the member’s bar where G.B Hyde, fresh from winning a silver medal in the decathlon at the Stockholm Olympics, had shown everyone his party trick of jumping from a stationary position onto the bar countertop. He insisted on doing it every time he had a few beers in him, but it was still impressive, nonetheless.

“I’ll have dreams about those thighs tonight,” Peter whispered. The way he was looking at Hyde was almost indecent. “How can you be on the same team as him and still be able to concentrate?”

“He’s doesn’t practice with us that often. He’s usually off playing a million other sports.”

“I painted a portrait of him for the Rugby club last year.” Peter explained, “I might have made a subtle pass, but he wasn’t having it. At least he was a good sport about it and let me down gently.”

“There he is! The man of the hour.” Hyde, who had noticed them, hopped back down and cut through the crowd to greet them dragging a well-dressed Indian gentleman. “Barrow, allow me to introduce you to Ranjitsinhji Vibhaji the second, Maharaja Jem Sahib of Nawanagar, better known as...”

“Ranji!” Thomas gasped. His match against Sussex had been cancelled due to heavy rain and he hadn’t had a chance to meet the cricketing legend. Instead, he had spent the day wandering around Brighton. He had admired the bizarre exoticism of the Pavilion, that looked more like something out of the Arabian Nights than a Royal Palace. Then he went to a matinee performance at the music hall on the pier and watched Cheerful Charlie Grigg get booed off the stage.

“I heard you were disappointed when your match was cancelled, so I invited him here today. Ranj, this is Thomas Barrow, our rising star.”

“Gerald, if had known you were going to replace me with a younger model I wouldn’t have retired.” Ranji laughed. He was a little plumper than Thomas remembered. Ranji had been the only Indian cricketer to play for an English team and had been an astounding batsman in his heyday. He was soft-spoken but his English was better than most Englishmen.

“If I had known you were going to come back so out of practice, I would have gone back to Sussex, if only to help you out.” Hyde retorted.

“I was disappointed we never got the chance to play the other week, Mr Barrow.” Ranji said, “I was curious about that infamous switch shot of yours.”

“Oh, it’s mostly just for show really,” Thomas said bashfully. “But it certainly gets the crowd going when it works.”

“Next time perhaps,” Ranji said with a smile.

After they had finished their drinks, they slipped away. Peter walked with them through the Regent’s Park to see them off at Euston Station.

“I know it’s only a few days, but I shall miss you all the same,” Peter told him.

“I’ll be back before you know it, and then you’ll be sick of the sight of me.” Thomas laughed, but he knew what the other man meant.

“Never,” Peter said with a wink, waving as they boarded the train.

“You must come and visit us, lad.” Uncle Jonathan told the artist. “We might not have as many galleries, but there’s plenty to do.”

*

They returned to the shop in the evening and Thomas finally felt himself relax after all the stress of the match and worrying about Phillip. The familiar sounds of the street and the smoky air felt strangely comforting. To his surprise, Jonathan opened the back door to reveal Matthew Crawley sitting in the armchair by the range in the kitchen. The kitten, which had almost doubled in size, was curled up contentedly in his lap.

“I was wondering who was looking after the cat,” Thomas noted.

“We’ve become firm friends while you’ve been gone. He’s a lively little chap, but his claws hurt like the Dickens.” Matthew said. Thomas couldn’t picture him feeding Basher a tin of Spratt’s pet food or emptying the tray he did his business in, but he remembered that his friend had kept dogs for most of his childhood.

“Well, we couldn’t leave him alone that long and it’s best not to leave the shop empty, in case someone notices and tries to break in,” Jonathan explained. “Thank you for volunteering, son.”

“It’s no trouble at all. My office is just down the road. It’s actually been quite nice. I’ve had an extra hour’s sleep in the mornings,” Matthew said cheerfully. “I stayed in your room, Thomas, I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas stammered. It had been a long time since he had thought about Matthew in that way, but the image of him lounging around in Thomas’s bed made him blush.

“So how did it go? Did you win?” his friend asked.

“We did.”

“One hundred and twelve runs. Isn’t that something?” David exclaimed, giving Thomas a playful punch on the arm.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Matthew laughed, “Listen, Whit came to my office the other day, he’s invited us both out for drinks. I think he’s making the most of his last night of freedom.”

“Oh.” Honestly, a night of drinking was the last thing he wanted to do. He had been dreamed of crawling into bed and having an early night the whole train ride home. But he was unlikely to get a chance to talk to Whit at the wedding, and after that who knew when he would get in touch.

“You don’t have to if you think it might be awkward,” Matthew reassured him.

“No, no, I’d love to come. David, are you in?”

“I would rather eat glass,” his brother said bluntly. “It was nice of him to order the wedding rings from me, but that doesn’t make mates.”

“You never told me that?” Thomas said. The thought made his stomach flip.

“You never asked.”

*

“Sorry we’re late, Mr Barrow insisted we ate first,” Matthew apologised as they met Whit at the Britons Protection. He looked much the same as he had been at university, only better groomed, and he was already flushed with drink.

“Oh, come on! Eating’s cheating.” Whit admonished them and ordered two more of whatever he had been drinking.

“That’s a terrible rule,” Thomas said, taking a tentative sip of his pint and shuddered. He hated Porters. “Nice to see you again, by the way.”

“I saw your endorsement campaign and had to give you grief about it. Look at this,” he held up a copy of the Sketch with one of Thomas’s hair adverts in it. “Ooh, la la!”

“Where did you get that?”

“They’re everywhere. You might just have the most recognisable face in the country,” Whit laughed. “A toast, to Barrow’s newfound fame.”

“And to the future Mrs Whittaker,” Matthew added, pointedly.

“And all who sail in her.” Thomas and Whit said at the same time then burst out laughing.

*

“I think I’m all right now,” Matthew said as he emerged from the alleyway he’d just been sick in, “Wait. No, I’m not.”

“Why did you try and keep up with him? It’s a fool’s errand,” Thomas sighed. They had made it as far as the Castle Hotel on their pub crawl, but now it looked as though their adventure was about to be cut short. Thomas, as usual, had nursed one pint in each establishment and was now tasked with shepherding his friends so they wouldn’t wander off.

“Well, Crawley’s dead.” Whit laughed. “I was planning for us to go to a lock-in at the Marble Arch but there’s not much point now. What say you we throw him in a cab and go back to yours.”

“Is that a good idea? You are getting married in the morning,” Thomas asked arms folded like a disapproving nanny.

“I just think we need to talk.”

“Fine. Just don’t wake my family up.” They managed to flag down a taxi that didn’t immediately speed off when the driver saw the state of them and spent the next few minutes trying to wrestle Matthew into the back of it. The man was surprisingly strong for a pencil pusher.

“You know, I actually feel a lot better now,” Matthew said, poking his head out of the cab’s window like a puppy.

“Of course you do, you’ve got all the poison out of you,” Thomas sighed. “Please drink some water when you get home.”

“Yes, Doctor!” Matthew slurred sarcastically as he was driven off back to his mother’s house.

The remaining pair walked through the dark streets back to the shop, where Thomas did his best to open the back door as quietly as possible. He would have succeeded in his venture if the cat hadn't zoomed down the stairs, mewling for treats. Thomas fed him a slice of ham then led Whit up to his bedroom.

“I’m sorry for not being in touch, but I suspected my father was sending people to spy on me," Whit explained. "If he’d found out, you would be in prison, I’d be in a mental institution, and he would have power of attorney over me.”

“Jesus, Whit. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought you were better off out of it.” Whit sighed. “I’ve paid off father’s debts and I asked my brother to be my best man. Even though I’d rather have asked you or, fuck, I’d have even chosen Crawley over _Bernard_.” He said the name with so much scorn it was almost comical. It was strange that although he was only the second son of Baron Whittaker by his second wife, Whit had inherited more money than his father could ever have dreamed of from his industrialist grandfather.

“Why would you do that when you hate them?”

“Because it's safer to keep them on side and because I need their connections to take the company where I want it to go. They’re both terrible at business, but they have friends in high places.” Whit explained, “Once I have that, I won’t have anything to do with them anymore. And if they come after me for more money then I’ll loan it to them with the estate as collateral. Then if they can’t pay me back, I’ll turf them out of the house and turn it into a nursing home.”

“You’ve really thought this through,” Thomas commented. No love lost then.

“But now that I’m getting married, maybe it won’t be so suspicious if we’re friends again. I have missed you, you know. You’re the only person I can talk to about things like this. Crawley’s all right, but he’s such a sensible Sally.”

“It’ll take more than a wife to get him off your back,” Thomas said doubtfully. However, he was going up in the world, their friendship wouldn’t seem so strange now, and it wasn’t as though they had anything to hide anymore. “Do you love her at least?” he asked, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Of course, I do. What’s that supposed to mean?” Whit said defensively.

“For a start, you’re here with me instead of getting your beauty sleep.”

“Fair point, in an ideal world, I’d rather not marry at all and carry on with whoever takes my fancy but that just isn’t possible. But Clara and I understand one another, and we both want a family. That’s almost enough, don’t you think?”

“Don’t ask me, it’s your decision.”

“Don’t be like that. You know how I feel,” Whit sighed.

“I know. I’m sorry you have to go through this,” Thomas said, “And if this is what you want then I’m happy for you.”

“Crawley mentioned you’d met someone else,” his friend said conspiratorially.

“Really? What did he say?” Thomas asked. It was strange for Matthew to talk about his private business. Phillip must have really left a bad impression if he was talking to Whit about it.

“Well, he said you had made a particular friend, which is his way of saying you’ve been fucking someone. I know that because he used to say that sort of thing when he was trying to talk about us.” It was all Thomas could do to not burst out laughing and wake the whole house up. “He also said he was a right knob.”

“It was only supposed to be a… summer dalliance, I suppose. I don’t think it’s going very well,” Thomas said.

“Summer dalliance. Is that what they’re calling it now?” Whit said derisively “Well if he starts causing trouble, let me know. I’ll take the first train to London and give him a good kicking for ya.”

“That’s not it. The trouble is I’ve been spending a lot of time with his best friend.”

“I never took you for a cad, Barrow,” Whit laughed with disbelief.

“I certainly feel like one.”

“I’m only joking. Look if you like him and he likes you, then go for it or you’ll spend your whole life wondering what could have been,” Whit said, “You always want to take care of people, but you deserve someone who’ll return the favour, you know? There I go, _in vino veritas_ , except with good advice. What’s that in Latin?”

“I don’t know. _Consilium_?” Thomas suggested, wracking his brain for all the Latin lessons he’d never paid attention to.

“I’ve forgotten all the Latin we learned but all these public-school twats I have to play nice with use it when they want to make fun of me behind my back. I hate that sort of thing. I might be a bully but at least I’m an honest bully. I do it to people’s faces.”

“One of these days, I’m going to write down all the strange things you say. I’ll call it the Wit of Whit.” Thomas laughed. This is what he had missed the most. Their easy banter and ability to joke around. Sex had always confused things and turned their camaraderie sour, but simply being together felt like the most natural thing in the world.

*

At some point, he and Whit had fallen asleep on his bed, as though they were back in school. He had been jerked awake at the sound of Whit swearing and struggling to put his shoes back on at about five in the morning. He had looked so handsome waiting at the altar, one would never have guessed that he had spent the previous night drinking. The wedding reception took place in the gardens at Broad Oak, the Whittaker family home. Thomas had never been invited and Whit hadn’t visited since his father had broken his leg in the sixth form. The building was imposing. A red brick, Classic revival, block of a house, with walls choked with ivy.

“It really is a beautiful wedding,” Thomas said, admiring the flower arrangements. The garden party truly was lovely, and it had even stopped raining for the day.

“Of course, it is. Who do you think helped her pick everything out?” Elaine huffed, “This dress cost almost as much as the brides. I told Whit it was the least he could do.” She was wearing an ivory tea gown in the latest fashion, with a high waist and half sleeves made from the finest cotton lawn and the most intricate Belgian lace and a wide-brimmed hat with a whole garden’s worth of silk flowers.

“You look like a beautiful moth,” he joked.

“Thank you, that’s exactly what I was going for,” Elaine laughed and did an exaggerated twirl. “Speaking of expensive clothes, is that a Hawkes suit you’re wearing? How much did they pay you for those silly adverts?”

“More than the England team, that’s for sure.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t written much. I don’t really seem to have much energy these days. All I do is work and sleep,” she sighed. Elaine had always been tall and willowy, but she had clearly lost weight and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

“If it helps at all, I never liked Clara that much,” Thomas offered. “She always paints herself as a victim even when she’s in the wrong.”

“And if you have a bad day she always explains in detail why she was having a worse time than you,” his friend giggled into her champagne.

“Oooh, I’m Clara. I get in a strop if people don’t pay attention to me,” Thomas continued, putting on an exaggerated effeminate voice.

“Oh, stop it. You’re terrible,” Elaine laughed and swatted him with her bouquet. “But since we’re on the subject, I’ve never liked Whittaker either. Having an awful childhood isn’t an excuse to treat people badly.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t care a Whit?” Thomas laughed.

“You always know how to cheer me up.”

“Why don’t you come to London?” Thomas blurted out. Elaine’s sister was currently living in Chiswick with her husband and young children and was always eager for visits. It was an impulse decision but the more he thought about it, the more he realised he missed everyone at home and having a familiar face around would make things easier. He wasn’t sure if Phillip and Peter knew any ladies of a sapphic persuasion, but if they did it might distract Elaine out of this melancholy she had sunk into. “It’s almost the summer holidays, isn’t it? I could take you out. Help you take your mind off things. Only I hate to see you so upset about all this.”

“That might be nice. I suppose it’s been a while since I visited my sister.”

*

July 1912 Downton Abbey

“I can’t believe you, sometimes. You had a golden opportunity and you didn’t even take it.” Sarah scolded as they walked back from church. They had finally identified Mr James Crawley’s body and buried it with the others in Canada. Mr Patrick, on the other hand, remained lost at sea. The village had held a memorial ceremony for them both, nonetheless. Nate O'Brien didn’t appreciate his Sunday mornings, his only time off most weeks, being co-opted by the expectation that he go to church. Going to church to mourn his boss’s distant relatives, felt like an extra slap in the face. Nate and Sarah came from a large family of lapsed Catholics, so these outings were purely lip service, a way of fitting in with the rest of the staff.

Even though they were siblings, he hadn’t really known Sarah growing up. She had been the eldest and he the youngest with a good twenty years and seven other surviving children between them. She was already working in service by the time he had been born and her visits home had been scarce. It had come as a surprise when she had invited him to apply to work as a footman when he had finished school and promised to put in a good word for him. Nate had been impressed as it had seemed like a very important job at the time, but in the end, the only qualifications he had needed was his height, his looks, and his ability to drop his accent. Mr Carson had worried that he was too thin, but he had filled out somewhat after two years of eating real meat.

“I wouldn’t consider Mr Watson fleeing like a thief in the night a ‘golden opportunity.’” Nate replied. “What was that about, anyway.” Sarah had been ranting about Mr Bates periodically for almost three months now and the topic had long since been exhausted.

“Never you mind.” His sister snapped.

“He was never going to make me his valet.” Nate sighed. Lord Grantham had invited Bates personally without advertising for the position anywhere, so he’d clearly been set on it. “Men like that always want someone their own age that they can talk to. I’d be better off getting more experience here as a footman then seeing if I can work for a younger gentleman in London.” If there were any jobs left by then. Self-made men preferred to dress themselves and the sons of the aristocracy were all broke. Service had seemed like a good career choice when he had left school, but Nate O’Brian was beginning to think that servants (particularly male servants) were on the cusp of becoming obsolete. “It’s just a shame we had to miss the season this year or I would have had more practice.” He lamented.

“You might yet,” Sarah said cryptically.

“What have you heard?” Nate asked.

“The Duke of Crowborough has invited himself for a visit as soon as the family is out of mourning.”

“Oh, him.”

“Lady Mary must have made quite the impression. Or her money, more likely, given that they’ve only met twice.”

“Definitely money,” Nate said. He had been giving William the eye all through dinner, back in London last year. The poor lad probably didn’t even understand what was happening, but it made Nate’s skin crawl.

If it was money the Duke was after, he was going to be sorely disappointed. If there had been no male heirs it might have been a different story, but as it stood, some stranger was about to inherit the lot and there wasn’t much they could do about it. He knew that Sarah had been listening to her Ladyship’s plans to contest the entail, and he, in turn, had been listening to them all argue about it at dinner. It was all rubbish in his opinion. Nobody needed to be that rich. He hoped the new heir would feel the same way and turn Downton Abbey into a school or something and give all of her Ladyship’s money away to the poor. It would serve them all right.

Perhaps it was time to make a change. Something modern. He knew he had no right to complain about where he was, the wages were good, and he had all his needs taken care of. But he also had to work every hour of the day and was barely allowed out of the house. Factory work was back-breaking, he knew from his father and his brothers, but at least you got to go home after your shifts and not think about it until the next morning. At least factories had unions. While there was nothing wrong with the rest of the staff per se, they weren’t the most thrilling company. He had actually found himself looking forward to the family’s dinners, if only for a bit of variety, and the Crawleys were the most boring people he knew. He also knew that if he mentioned leaving, Sarah would never let him hear the end of it. She had worked hard to get him this job and would bear a grudge if he decided to throw it away. He had learned that it was her way of telling him she would miss him.


End file.
